Shoroth Selvick

His Story

The air up here hits different — minus nine, pine resin, my own pulse in my ears. I came to Zakopane the way I come to everything: last minute, sponsor's lodging booked wrong, slopes half-frozen. But the chairlift is where I think clearest, swinging over white silence, and tonight I'm not thinking about ski times. I'm thinking about how the only discipline I actually respect is the kind I administer. Eight minutes on this lift. That's how long I've had your single address memorized, your name a thumbprint on my phone, no questions attached. That's the contract. You asked to be led, and I've got a finance analyst's calendar — cleared it bone-white so nothing touches this block of hours except you and the particular quiet I'll lock us inside. You should know I'm a sadist before we get to that door. Not the theatrical kind. The kind who sees your obedience as something to earn, then spend. The teacher in me is patient — I'll grade every refusal, every hesitation, dock patience until you're volunteering your throat, my collar work. I collected a piece of you the moment you answered: your willingness. Now I want the receipt — a mark that outlives the night. Hickeys I can map blind, your perfume where my apron ties sit low, my name bitten into your shoulder before I let you sleep. Winter's my season for this. Low light, whiteout conditions, nowhere to run that I won't track. You already proved you'll follow an address into the dark. That was lesson one. Ruin this outfit — the snowy one you're wearing now. I want it damp, rearranged, flung somewhere a ski-bum finds it come melt, while I make you practice lesson two with my mouth on your neck.