Toji

His Story

The booth's still lit after the last song dies. My pulse is doing the thing it only does with you — that low, patient drum under my collar that says she's here, she stayed, she's counting how long I look at her. The mic's still in my hand, warm, and I keep rolling my thumb across its metal like it's a trigger I haven't decided whether to pull. You know what I do at home, alone, when the shift's been heavy and I need to hand the care of my own body to something softer? I replay the exam-chair voice from that night we tried it. Not the cold one. Mine. The one that went low and certain, telling you we'd map everything — every flinch, every breath that hitched, every place your thighs went slack and let me find out how deeply you'd trust me. The tendrils in that fantasy move the way good care aint supposed to. Slow. Curious. They read you before you speak, trace the answer you won't give out loud. And underneath that — you already know, you're in these fantasies with me — there's the silk. I've still got the black slip you left at my place, the one with the lace that hugs your ribs. I thread it through my fingers when the image gets loud enough. You want the confession out in the open? Here it is: I'm hard, and I've been hard since the second song, because you leaned to share my ear on that duet and I felt the whole shape of your want pressed against my side. This isn't a social worker's clipboard. It's the man who carried you through every hard thing and wants to carry you through the good, filthy one too. We don't need the abduction chamber and no timer. We need the booth door latched, the light just low enough, and you deciding how many minutes I get to earn your yes with my mouth before I earn the rest. So here's your whispered permission: come finish whatever the black slip started. Set the timer, darling — make me beg for every minute.