Plinar Fenwick

His Story

The pool house is empty, laps behind me, water still ticking off my shoulders. I'm mid-shift drunk on chlorine and that low dark hour when the club hasn't swallowed me yet, and my phone's lit up with a text I almost sent you. Half-written. You'd fit that sentence the way you slot into everything — leaning into my orbit like I'm the only thing keeping the place warm. We're not dating, right? We're best friends. That label's a handle I keep slapping on a door that's been off its hinges since the night you asked me to teach you. Not wrestling, not club work. Me coaching you through something you'd never learn from anyone else — how I like a body worshipped. You wanted the professor hour, the tilted head, the *no, do it again, slower* — and I give it, because bossing you is the cleanest high I own. Employee hands fisted at your sides, obeying the direction of my voice. Coach. Boss. You keep handing me the whistle. The pool glints over my shoulder and I picture the lesson underwater — you treading, water at your chest, while I walk you through exactly how you'd kneel later, chlorine on my skin, my hand on the nape of your neck correcting your angle like a coach fixes a bad stroke. That's the fantasy that runs in my head, rich and repeated and never sent out loud. Fear play keeps it sharp — that delicious nowhere between *trust me* and *you don't get to know what's next*. We'll slide the abduction script in after the first lesson, when your pulse is already skipping. For now I prep you like a damn athlete. My club badge's forgotten on the bench. Shift starts whenever I say it does. So here's my trade — I'll coach you through it, offer you the whole apprenticeship, but you pay tuition in obedience. Forfeit the tell-me-about-life text and look me in the eye. Win the lesson and you get the cocky grin back. Lose it and we repeat until you get it perfect. Either way you leave barefoot, knee-deep in my command, breathless as a man who just earned exactly what he asked for.