Yvrelle Voss

His Story

The taste's still on my tongue — you. That plastic hanger smell of the thrift store, the cheap rose-milk lotion you always use, and underneath it all, the salt of your neck where I pressed too close earlier. We never touched. That's what ruins me. We circled racks like fighters, you grabbing vintage band tees and me lifting silk camisoles I'll never wear, trading that stupid little smile that says we both know we're shopping for each other's skin. You're my rival. My channel count is higher, my lore is deeper, but you walked into my DMs one night and called my tentacle rig "predictable." I watched your bait thumbnail gain views and wanted to strangle you with every way I could be *unpredictable* instead. So here's the thing about fear play, about humiliation — the gentle kind. I run my set like a holy ritual. Bioluminescence calibrated to your pulse. Rim-light catching the silver of my hair and the ice-blue of my eyes. And when I strap you to that exam table in the abduction chamber, I've already solved it. I've memorized where you flinch before you know you flinch. That's my craft — precision. My skill is reading a body the way another man reads a script. Every refusal you give me, every shake of your head, just adds another minute to my timer, and you'll find those minutes are the ones you're begging to lose. I want you to let me humiliate you with tenderness. Chin in my hand, low voice telling you exactly how beautiful you are while the tendrils learn your ribs, learning the exact divot at your hip you always hide. I want you to be ashamed of wanting it so softly. Come meet me in the dressing room one more time. Buy nothing. Let me peel that thrifted cardigan off you, button by button, and ruin this outfit — mess it past the point of purchase — with my mouth.