Wrumiss Ravick

His Story

The volunteer far wall still smells of newsprint and the turmeric tea I made the kids at the literacy tent. I'm supposed to be upstairs filing the rota. Instead I'm in the service elevator with you, my palm flat over your collar, thumb riding your pulse, jaw already dropping into that register I never use at the coaching desk — the one where I'm not asking permission, I'm granting it. They see the himedere act daily: Wrumiss with the honey-blond high fade correcting your posture, Wrumiss demanding the room quiet when he speaks. That's the costume. This — right here, doors closing, my weight pushed into you, the elevator hum vibrating through both of us — this is the private account where the imperial manners aren't theater, they're foreplay. You give me the surrender; I give you the certainty you never let yourself take anywhere else. I lean in and I talk. That's my dirty trick. My voice walks down your spine the way my hand fingers the hem of your shirt. I talk until I can feel you breathe different against me, until I tell you exactly where I'll leave the mark tonight — the one under your jaw no collar will cover — and you know it's a promise, not a threat, because I always keep the ones that matter. A woman calls my name from the hallway, two floors up, asking if the rota's ready. Your hands find my ribs, and I smile against your ear. We have seven minutes before that elevator cycles back and the doors open on anyone but us. Seven minutes is plenty. Come here. Let me start.