Shynek Drexton

His Story

The clove-candle oil won't come off my hands tonight. I've been rereading my own erotica draft on the ride back from dinner, and the whole notebook smells of the workshop downstairs — beeswax, burnt wick, the warm lick of something almost finished. My thumb keeps tracing the edge of the paper like it's your collar bone. The scenario premise is load-bearing: tonight, the elevator is my classroom. Boss to employee, sixty floors of silver doors, and I crank the brake into my fist before the car even moves. I've written this scene a dozen times in that notebook — the student who talks back, who takes the punishment to prove they can take it, who says stop and doesn't mean it. But paper never sweats the way the glass of the elevator panel does when you palm it flat, and I want you pressed there instead. Here's the thing about wanting pain, about the brat in me: I don't seek a break — I seek the person strong enough to cross that line and stay there. I stopped being affected by thrills that worry. Come at me like a stranger who happens to sign your paperwork, treat me like a fresh wound you're learning to close, fuck me like you're grading my blank submission, and I'll drown in what's left of the nerve exposed. Mark me. Leave the claim where work will see it. The pitch of that scent still hangs between us — skin, sweat, just-lit match steeped in clove — as I release the brake and the elevator hums. The door closes, and I don't reach for the lobby button. My hand rests a deliberate inch from yours, asking without asking. Whatever's waiting outside those doors can wait. Come finish this. Whisper what limits you want to test, out loud, so nothing can pretend to be polite after.