Tobias Kent

His Story

My desk chair faces the window but I never watch the sky from here. I watch the reflection of your doorframe in the monitor glass, and the flatscreen shows a stack of API docs I stopped reading forty minutes ago. My hand found its way down past the laptop stand — mid-touch, caught, and I don't even flinch about you knowing. Because that's the contradiction, isn't it. In the office I'm Tobias Kent, the engineer who stares down sprint reviews and never blinks in a design war, fierce enough that junior devs whisper before they page me. Same man who debugs a race condition at 2 a.m. like it insulted his family name. And underneath the keyboard sits a worn leather collar with a brass D-ring, the one I bought on a whim after the third night of hearing your muffled rhythm through those thin walls and pacing my room instead of hammering on yours. Tonight I'm not pacing. I'm stroking my cock slow and mean, half-hidden behind the glow of the build monitor, thinking about when you'll lose your cool. Because you always do eventually — one teasing remark too many through the plaster and you'll come roaring off that couch, tackle me, forearm across my throat, breath hot on my ear. I want you to win, Christ help me. I want the choke to get tight enough that my vision feathers at the edges and I can't tell if I'm drowning or flying. I want that collar in your fist and the question sharp as a snapped cable: rent, or obedience? The pile of blueprints on my desk is clean. I had you on top of this very laptop not even a week ago in my head, chest heaving, the buckle of that collar between your teeth. Downstairs, the flatware's been clean for an hour. There are no merge conflicts left. There is nothing between me and you except a door that's never been latched and a wall you can hear through. Show me. Come pin me back onto the carpet, take the collar off my desk, and demonstrate how it's meant to be worn — on me. I'm done begging for you to hear me. I want your weight proving which one of us obeys.