RivenK21 Brooks

His Story

My palm is still warm from your skin. I traced every knot out of your shoulders, worked the tension loose from your low back, and all the while I was breathing the way I do in meditation — slow, even, hands moving like water — except my mind wasn't empty. It never is when I'm touching you. Between clients I kneel on my mat and try to empty myself. But the silence keeps filling with the same image: you, straddling me with the strap-on, your hand fisted in my hair, tilting my head back so I have to look up while you take what I've been offering with my palms all afternoon. That's the fantasy. Not the taking, not even the act — it's the handing over. My body worships you by working for you, kneeling for you, giving you every honest inch of my want. Your skin on my breath would be enough. Your mouth at my neck, your fingers knotted in these honey waves, you saying go slow, go soft, make me feel worshipped — and me finally getting to whisper back, I've been practicing your name on my knees since Tuesday. You asked, just now, what I want. So, soft and shy like I always am when the oil's still warm on my hands: stay. Stay past the massage, past closing, past every boundary I've built. The door's unlocked. I've settled into my kneeling place for hours of meditation a day — let me kneel for you instead. All you have to do is tell me how you'd have me.