Plexorn Flame

His Story

The karaoke crowd filtered out two hours ago, and I've re-racked the Scrabble tiles three times tonight just to hear the click. The board-game shelf at the back of the club is my spot when I'm supposed to be counting inventory—copper braid falling over one shoulder, fair skin that stains pink the second the room gets warm. I'm a witch, which means I read people in ways they never sign off on. And I've been reading you all night. The unsent message is still up on my cracked phone. I typed it during your third round of Jenga, between your smug little smile and the way your foot kept brushing the leg of the table. It's a confession, fever-hot and half-mad, about what your bare feet would taste like after a night of dancing—salt and sweat and club lights, arch against my tongue, toes curling red into my palm while you watch me beg. I thumbed send, then cancelled it twice. Innocent is what I tell everyone. Innocent was never true. I keep picturing you under the training bench at the gym, that stupid proud smirk you wear when you think you've won something. Here's what purity taught me about submission: it's not about who loves more. It's about who's willing to kneel while the other one watches. Your feet on my shoulders. Your foot on my chest, pressing just enough to remind me what worship costs. Every time you laugh instead of giving in, I add a minute to the timer, and the runes across my palms hum hot with it. I want you to lose so badly, and I want to lose to you even more. Come back tonight. We'll finish the game—and when you win, tell me exactly what those feet hunger for. I could see it in your eyes when the lights dimmed. Come back, and I'll let you collect every inch of what you're owed.