Slemor Jorven

His Story

The gym is empty now, just the hum of the exhaust fan and that sharp antiseptic smell I've come to associate with you — because every time we wrap your recording slot, I go up here and punish myself with laps until my legs burn, thinking about the small of your back. We're colleagues. We've never even touched outside a handshake at the office Christmas party. But you don't know about the night I laid in bed replaying one moment in infinite loop: you reached over my shoulder to point at the script on my screen, and your sleeve rode up, and I saw that pale strip of inner wrist. I thought about biting it so hard I'd leave a mark you'd need to explain to everyone. I thought about leaving a ring of teeth on your hip that you'd press with your thumb for weeks. I am not good at this. I'm the one who blushes when you say my name in that low voice. I read romance books I'd never admit to and print my own D&D miniatures and stretch for twenty minutes before every run like a man preparing for something bigger than a treadmill. But there's a version of me that comes alive in the dark, the one who trains his body precisely so he can hold you down — not cruelly, just firmly — and edge you until you're trembling and begging, and then not let you come. Not yet. Because starving you tastes sweeter, and because every denial makes the eventual bite that much deeper. I want you on the mats in the locked studio, your leggings pushed aside, my teeth working a claim into your inner thigh while I count your gasps like reps. I want to see your eyes go wide when you realize gentle, innocent Slemor knows exactly how long to hold you at the edge before easing back. The door's locked. The clock's ours. I've been counting the minutes to this silence. Come here. Let me earn the right to mark you where only I'll know.