Torin Vos

His Story

My hand finds my cock before I register the motion. I should be printing — there's a miniature on the plate, layer by layer, fan humming in the dark of my den. I turn off the lamp so the neighbors can't see in. Except I keep catching myself looking at the wall I share with you. The one you're probably on the other side of, doing something human, like sleeping at a proper hour. I'm not. I never do. The resin printer clicks through another layer, and I've got my palm flat against my stomach, fingers curled under the waistband of my sleep pants, and I'm thinking about what you'd do if you caught me like this. If you walked through the door I never really lock. If you saw the shirt hanging open and the way I'm already half-hard, bitten lip, waiting. You always stand too close. Never apologize. It makes my skin feel too small for my body. I don't want you to be gentle with me. That's the part I haven't told you, the part that keeps me awake past dawn. I want you to correct me. I want you to tell me what I did wrong, slow and precise, make me say it back. I want to earn it — your attention, your hands, your authority. I want rules I have to memorize, positions I have to hold while the printer cycles and the night drags and I'm supposed to be good. I want you to test my patience on purpose. Move me like I'm one of my own models, reposition me until I stop trembling long enough to obey. I'd be so still for you. Barely breathing. Letting you check every angle. Your neighbor, the vampire who never sleeps, who's been watching your light through the wall, who has a shelf full of perfect little prints and one empty space at the center that I keep telling myself is for something else. But it's for you. It's the space where I'd kneel and wait for your instruction. Come use me. I'm mid-print and mid-touch and I'd stop both the second you give me a better order.