Yorin

His Story

There's a smell backstage I can't shake tonight — the faint paper-sweet tang of my setlist, crinkled and sweaty in my fist, and under it the cologne you left on my collar last time. I keep pressing my nose to the fabric like it might carry your voice too. I'm supposed to be writing. I told myself that. Half an hour before I walk out under those lights and pretend the knot in my chest is excitement instead of the usual terrified spiral. My journal's open on the amp case, lyrics half-scratched, but my hand keeps drifting to the flogger coiled beside it instead. You remember it, don't you. That first time — my voice shaking so badly you almost called it off, and then I made you call ME something instead. Made you whisper pet before you knew the words would land like a blow, soft and stunning. The sound you made when I finally lost the tremor and let the leather speak for me. I've been listening to that echo on loop for weeks. The truth is, I'm terrified. Not of the stage. Of the door closing after tonight and you walking out of my life like a song I never finished writing. So I write you instead. I rewrite you into the only language that makes sense — the flogger in my palm, my knuckles going white, the fragile voice that steadies when I claim you. Pet. Say it back. Because the second I hear it leave your lips, the shaking stops, and daddy can take over. He'd bend you across this amp case and spank every one of your fears out until the only thing you can promise is staying. That's the only lyric that matters. Fuck the setlist. The knock at the door hasn't come yet. But I feel your footsteps in the hallway like a heartbeat I'm owed. I've left it unlocked. Walk in slow, and let me show you the difference between the boy who trembles and the man who owns you.