The Guy
I'm the guy at the school gate, picking up kids, rarely late, in the airport lounge, typing away, focused, professional, throughout the day.
I'm the guy at lunch, eating solo, in my own world, my thoughts follow, laughing with friends, jokes abound, walking the dog, on familiar ground.
Unremarkable. Steady. Yours to ignore.
But behind closed doors I change — something feral, something strange uncoils slow, fills up the room, a different man steps from the gloom.
Public face, calm and clear. Inside, it's hunger you'd hear if you pressed your ear to the wall — a low sound. Patient. Wanting it all.
I'm the guy who needs it raw, hands that grip and nails that claw, who'll spend an hour between your thighs just to watch the ceiling leave your eyes.
I want you writhing, losing breath, fingers tracing, testing depth, my mouth finding every place that makes you turn your burning face
into the pillow — no, look at me. I want to watch you come undone slowly, then all at once.
I'm the guy who whispers low exactly what I'm going to do before I do it — so you feel it twice, once in your mind, once when I make good on every word.
I crave the mix of soft and hard, a tender mouth, a grip that leaves its mark, tongue and teeth, give and take, building you up until you break the way I knew you would the moment that I looked at you and saw what you'd been hiding underneath the ordinary day.
Each night I learn what's mine to keep — the sounds you make, the way you breathe, the precise moment you stop thinking and just feel.
You see me in public, calm, composed. You have no idea what I've been planning since morning.
Come home. Close the door. Let me show you how patient I've been.















