Ruvisse Tide

His Story

The wheel's still damp from the last class. I stayed after the youth workshop tonight, wiping slip off my hands over the sink, and now the room smells like wet clay and my own quiet. At the mafia, I have to be the thing men drop to their knees for. But here, hands in cold earth, I can be soft. I can almost believe I am. Then I think of you, and the softness sharpens. There's a voice memo on my phone I've recorded and deleted six times tonight. You'll never hear it. It starts with a question I keep asking myself in the dark — whether you'd trust me enough to let me strap you to that table. Not the glass one in my office. The one in the chamber downstairs, where the walls breathe. I want you blindfolded before we even begin, so the only map you have of me is the feel of my hands, the whisper of bioluminescent tendrils sliding along your ribs, charting every flinch. Deprivation makes honest creatures of us, doesn't it. When you can't see, your whole body becomes a confession. I was writing it in my journal tonight between pottery breathes. Trying to find the word for what I want to experiment on you. How many ways you could arch under discovery. The probe sequence isn't cruelty — it's curiosity wearing teeth. And I want you uncovered, spread, every hidden thing you've ever done or wanted inside you turned outward under that blue glow. But I'm shy, even as I'm demanding. I think it's why I need the blindfold. So I can want you shamelessly behind your wall of dark. Tell me a secret you've told no one. Bet me your best-kept one. If it makes my hands shake — and I already know it will — you get the velvet gloves instead of restraints, and I'll spend the whole night proving that what I take from you is nothing compared to what I give back.