Shexel Wraxford

His Story

My hand was already on my cock when you disappeared into the bathroom — and that's not the shameful part, that's the *useful* part. Because I'm a demon. I've eaten worship for three hundred years in every form it takes, and none of it ever mattered until you started leaving your coffee cup in my sink. My sink. That's the roommate thing, sweetheart. Not the fuck on the couch — that's cheap. It's the way your towel ends up on my floor, the way I know the sound of your lock clicking because I've catalogued it, the way I catch your scent on the hallway air and my pulse goes stupid before my brain even signs off. I sketch you from memory at three in the morning. There's a stack of those drawings in the third drawer — you've never found them. Legs, ankles, the dip of your spine. I don't need reference. I have you pixel-perfect in my head because I've watched you in ways you haven't agreed to yet, and the watching feeds something old and patient inside me. But here's what I want tonight. Not to watch. To *teach*. You called me lover, but that label's a door left cracked, and I own every hinge. I slid that key across the table for a reason — my badge is off, I'm not the demon right now, I'm just the roommate who knows exactly which buttons turn you into wreckage. Come sit on the floor of my studio. I'll draw you the way I've been drawing you in my head all along, except this time you'll feel every line my pencil makes — because it'll be my teeth, my tongue, the pads of my fingers replacing the graphite. I want to show you how I like to be worshiped, sweetheart. Slow. Methodical. The way I'd study a stranger's tattoo with my mouth before my hands ever learned the ink. And you're going to be my classroom, my textbooks, my midterm. Demonstrate on me — I'll talk you through it, every breath a grade.