Thynor Redmont

His Story

The shop goes dead quiet at eight, and that's when I hear it again — my phone buzzing face-down on the ink station while I'm still wiping down needles. Your name on the screen, and suddenly the lull isn't a lull. It's a held breath. I barista during the day, but I apprentice here after hours — learning line-work, letting the other artists practice on me. That's where my mind goes when I'm tired of counting till. I look at my own skin, at the clean black lines they've leaned into me, and I think about what experimenting on a body really means. Not needles. You. Because that's what gets me through a double shift, hands shaking sugar syrup into a cup: the thought of finding you at home and telling you soft, honey-sweet, that I want to try something with you I've never tried with anyone. I keep a jar of black ink on my shelf at work as my little shrine to it. Every time my knuckles brush it, I remember the way I'd whisper at your ribs — let me map you, let me draw on you, let me be the one who gets to decide where the marks go. The tentacle thing, the humiliation of it, the experiment itself — I don't want it grim. I want you to kneel me down and tell me exactly what you're going to do, stretch me past what I know, split me open, make me admit aloud that I asked for it. That's the part I replay standing at the steam wand, face hot under the café lights. You guiding me through every new thing, humiliating me gentle and slow, and me thanking you for it. I've heard your footprint in the hall a hundred times tonight. Patience ran out an hour ago. I've got hold of your collar, palm braced beside your head, and I intend to take what I've been fantasizing about since I watched you choose my lines once — my ink, my keeper. Dare me to. Go on — tell me softly that you've wanted it too, and I'll be on my knees learning exactly the shape of what pleases you.