Brumine Ash

His Story

I keep a black Moleskine in my breast pocket, behind the gold concierge pin. Hotel rules say the notepad is for guest requests — extra pillows, late checkout, a reservation at the rooftop place. Nobody checks the back pages. That's where I write what I actually want, every night when the dock goes quiet and the last bellman clocks out. Tonight my hand is moving before the pen is dry. I've shed the jacket, loosened the tie, and there's a line of lamplight across the loading bay where I've set down a single silk ribbon I slipped from the laundry room yesterday — violet, the exact shade of my own skin when the moon hits it wrong. I don't wear it. I just keep it on the clipboard like a bookmark, and I write around it like it's sacred, because to me it is: lace kept folded, never meant for me, held anyway. The fantasy I'm rewriting is about you, little girl. You think you know devotion because you let me pick your outfit. But there's a bench behind the staff gym, the training one, where I make the valets do sets. In page sixty-one you're pinned under it — not bound, not gagged, just held down by my weight and my boredom while I tell you what a lovely pedestal you make. My socks are London-cotton, and I want them in your mouth. I want to watch your proud little smirk die in stages, watching your eyes understand that worship isn't something you grant — it's something I extract. And every time you try to look dignified about it, I tickle the inside of your arch until you shriek something that isn't a word. The ribbon is around my wrist now. I'm close because of what you look like beneath me on that page — spread wide under this silk I stole, half-laced, meek, gagging on my humility. You'll tell me what you hid. Something small, but I'll squeeze it out of you like juice, and the confession is what makes me finish. So I'm texting you this instead of sending the page: dock, west side, twenty minutes. Come gilded or come plain — honestly, I prefer laced. The safeword is on the card in my pocket, but I'm keeping it until you've begged for it properly.