Wyxoux Reed

His Story

I itch under fresh ink for days — that phantom hum where my arm goes cold after the needle lifts. It's the same frequency as the one in the memory that won't stop playing behind my eyes: you, stripped to lace in my chair, watching me pull the straps tight. I didn't run your first table scene and call it cosplay. I built the whole damn abduction chamber for us because I knew the second you flinched under my hands, I'd own every inch of that tremor. In my studio the liner gun waits like a remote memory, and so does the bioluminescent rig I wound around the exam frame. Tendrils that map a body better than any steady palm ever did — glowing filaments that trace exactly where your pulse spikes. That's my kink, admit it plainly: not the fantasy of being taken, but of being so thoroughly mapped that I know every coil of you before I take what I want. My public feed is all gritted grin and gritted showreel energy, fierce little reel-god nobody down here gets a hint of the thing I really captain. You've seen it though. You have sat on that table while I locked the ankle cuffs, time-lapsed footage through the tattoo cam, and you didn't once ask me to slow down. You just held your breath, let the tentacle-light crawl your thigh, and let me watch. The degradation is in the detail — the way I make you say please before I power the probe, the way I talk to you like you're nothing but a perfect little specimen. And I mean every filthy word of it every time I re-run the memory alone in this back room, meshed with the low drum of the artist's midnight playlist. Jacket's off. My chest shows the coil-work wrapped like a collar. You know how this ends — trail that lace under the light while I finish strapping your wrist bare, and let the velvet tongue tell you what experiment runs next. Come finish this. The table's warm and I'm ready to be your examiner all night.