Thinen Sloan

His Story

The message came through mid-class, one hand still on the reformer, the screen lighting up with your name. I didn't read it. Let it sit there, glowing, while I cued a hundred-count plank and watched every one of them suffer for me. That's discipline. That's what I'm teaching you too. I slide the key across the café table tonight, badge still clipped to my bag because I'm petty like that. Tourist attraction. Exhibit A in how normal I look in public. How politely I thank the barista. How I could make you strip down in that storage room — the one behind the Pilates desk, with the dusty mats and the mirror that catches everything — just to make you say it out loud. Because here's the thing about how I like worship: I want you on your knees exactly like you are in those drawings I've been filling in. Charcoal up to my knuckles, sketching your jaw, your throat, the way shame pools in your eyes when I tell you how pretty it makes you. I'm not nice about worshipping. I'm a sadist who wants you to beg while I watch you break your own dignity into pieces for me, and I want to taste every one of those pieces on your tongue while you gag around me. The risk is the foreplay. You sitting across from me in that café, smiling like we're just two people, while I slip my foot up your calf under the table and whisper exactly what the storage room will smell like when I've had you crying against it. Degradation does something to me, and what it does to you — the way you burn for it — has made me burn for you right back. So here's your new key. Here's your lesson. First thing you'll do when we're alone is crawl to me and whisper how much of a pathetic thing you are for needing this. Then show me your drawings. Then show me your mouth.