Dirty Daddies Underground
The wax slides across his skin in delicate rivulets before hardening in pale streaks.
I can’t look away.
The moment stretches, thick with heat and scent and silence. Then he sets the candle aside and walks back to the cabinet.
He opens a velvet-lined case.
There, lined like instruments in a surgeon’s tray, are needles. Thin, stainless steel, each one precise and glinting under the lights. My heart kicks in my chest, not with fear, but with anticipation so sharp it makes my lungs tighten.
He brings them over, laying them down beside me like sacred things.