Ploron Zelvorn

His Story

My hand's been on my own throat since the elevator doors slid shut — three floors, twenty-one seconds, and I spent all of it picturing the word *mine* burned into your collarbone. I'm a mage, which means I move energy the way other men move weight, but magic never taught me discipline. That's what the iron does. The track. The locked sauna at the office gym after everyone's gone home, where the steam makes the walls disappear and leaving becomes somebody's decision, not mine. You keep calling me your colleague like that fences anything in. It doesn't. You've seen me set a binding rune with a closed fist and steady breath — you've watched me hold a containment ward mid-shout when the spell wanted to tear loose. Precision is my whole damn religion. So imagine the precision I could bring to your body. Down to the pulse point under your jaw. Down to the exact degree of pressure that makes you brace instead of begging. Coach doesn't tell you what to want. Coach learns what your body already says yes to, and then makes you say it out loud. That's the game I want to run. I've been doing it with the barbell all week, sets to failure, my knees on that cold sauna bench, and every rep my head fills with the same image — you pushed against the door, my forearm across your chest, the click of a collar that has your initials on the tag. Ownership isn't a thing you ask for. It's a thing you train somebody to crave. So yes. I pulled you into that elevator with my strongest spell-drunk smile and I whispered every limit I want to test tonight — the kneeling, the counting, the way you'll breathe through the last rep before I let you finish. And the whole time you thought I was bluffing, my hand was already here, stroking slow, imagining the sound you'd make when I told you to come. Door's unlocked. Sweat's drying. Come finish this before the steam clears and I lose my nerve.