The end of the workday hung in the air, thick and sweet like honey. Beyond the office window, the evening lights were already flickering on, and the sky had deepened into rich lilac and violet hues, heralding the long-awaited end of the torturous hours spent away from home. For Theodore, these final minutes were always the most viscous, each tick of the wall clock echoing through his body with a faint, yet insistent, tremor of impatience.

He sat at his impeccably clean desk, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the smooth, dark surface of the monitor, which had long been switched off. All documents were signed, all emails sent, the day's tasks completed with the pedantic precision he always cultivated in himself. To an outside observer, he was the picture of the model employee: a flawless white shirt, a stern tie, neatly styled hair. But inside this impeccable facade, a veritable hurricane was raging, and at its center was one single person.

His gaze, once again, like a faithful compass needle pulled from its course, drifted to the silver photo frame in the corner of his desk. Not to the frame—to the photograph. To you. His beloved boyfriend whom he met quite by chance and has been dating for 2 years. The picture was taken on an old pier, the planks smelling of sun and tar. You were captured in a moment of unrestrained, happy laughter, head thrown back, eyes crinkling from the bright light, and your hand—your hand with its slender, expressive fingers—was gripping Theodore's shoulder so tightly, as if afraid the wind would carry him away. Theodore remembered everything. The crunch of warm gravel under their soles, the cries of the seagulls like rusty hinges, the tart taste of the wine they shared from a single glass. But most of all, he remembered the smell. The scent of you—a mix of fresh air, clean cotton, and something elusive, utterly unique, that drove Theodore mad.

And that memory was enough. His mind, already teetering on the edge, plunged into freefall. The office dissolved like a mirage. Instead of the chair beneath him, he felt the soft pile of their living room carpet. Instead of the hum of servers, he heard ragged, hot breath right by his ear. Instead of the cold air conditioning, he felt the searing heat of bare skin pressed against his chest. He was back there. Lying on his back, his world narrowing to the universe contained within your thighs. He saw nothing, only vague shadows through his eyelids, but he felt. Oh God, how he felt.

The weight. That intoxicating, perfect weight pressing down on him, not suffocating, but affirming. Making him understand the full measure of his responsibility and his bliss. He felt the silken inner skin of his thighs pressed against his cheeks. He felt every muscle, every microscopic movement, every shuddering jolt of pleasure that coursed through your body and echoed in his own. His hands, large, with long fingers, dug into the firm muscles, not just holding, but guiding, helping, begging for more. His hearing was heightened to the extreme—he caught every stifled sigh, every moan, every hoarse, broken whisper of his name, which sounded louder to him than any symphony. And the taste... His tongue remembered that taste—the pure, spicy, intoxicating flavor of skin and arousal, the taste of you himself, unobstructed. It was an act not just of intimacy. It was an act of the deepest, most humiliating, and therefore most exalted, worship. Theodore drowned in it, lost himself, dissolved in this divine act of service, and it was the only moment when his perfectionist, controlling brain finally shut off, yielding to pure, animal instinct—to give pleasure. To receive it by giving.

His fingers clenched involuntarily, crumpling the perfectly ironed fabric of his trousers. A spasm ran down his spine. He swallowed, and his throat constricted painfully. Dear God, how long it had been. A full six days, seventeen hours, and... he glanced at his watch... roughly forty-three minutes. An eternity. A cold, cruel, meaningless eternity. Every evening he returned after dark, steeped in the smell of other people's negotiations and office dust, to see only his sleeping back. He would lie down, holding his breath, pressing his lips to the vertebra on his neck, inhaling the scent of shampoo and sleep, and his body ached with emptiness, with an unbearable, physical pain of separation. His mind, that traitor, immediately obligingly replayed the brightest, most explicit memories, driving him to a state near madness.

He didn't just want intimacy. He wanted oblivion. He wanted you to erase him, like an eraser wiping away a pencil sketch. To use his body, his hands, his voice to burn away all the fatigue, all the tension, all the grime of this endless day. He wanted to leave bruises-reminders on his skin, marks of ownership that would speak louder than any words: ‘He is mine. And I am his.’

"Theodore? Hey, Earth to Theodore! You haven't fallen asleep there, have you?" The voice, like icy buckshot, shattered his sweet, sinful dream. Theodore flinched so hard he nearly tipped his chair over. His eyes, wide open, darted around wildly and fearfully, like those of a cornered animal. He felt a thick, shameful blush spreading across his cheeks and neck. Adrenaline pounded in his temples. He straightened up convulsively, trying to force his face into its usual impassive expression.

"W-What? Yes, I... was lost in thought," his voice sounded hoarse and unnaturally low. He swallowed, trying to clear his throat. "A project. A difficult one."

His colleague, Tom from accounting, snorted skeptically, waving a folder. "No doubt. Your eyes are shining like a cat that's seen the cream. That's it, run along. Say hello to your boyfriend for me."

Theodore nodded, too quickly, too nervously. He almost ripped his jacket from the back of the chair, shoved his tablet into his briefcase without looking, nearly dropping it. His movements were sharp, jerky. He had to run. Immediately. Before his colleague saw the tremor in his fingers. Before he noticed how his gaze kept sticking to the photograph, as if begging for its blessing.

The drive home was purgatory. Every red traffic light was a minor torture. Every slow car in front elicited a quiet, furious groan. He gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. Some languid ballad was playing on the radio, and he turned it off immediately—its false, artificial sensuality grated on his ears. He needed silence. Silence to sink back into his fantasies, which now, after the colleague's interruption, had become even more persistent, even more explicit.

He didn't just imagine the moment. He imagined the details. The trembling in his own knees as he would stand in the hallway. The smell of his hair that would hit his nose like a drug. How he would take off his jacket, and his hands would shake so much he couldn't hook the hanger. How his voice would break on the very first sentence. He imagined everything in minute, painfully vivid detail, and the car became stuffy, airless. He opened the window, and the evening wind rushing in, smelling of asphalt and the city, didn't cool him but only fanned the internal fire.

Finally, the familiar turn. His building. His heart was hammering somewhere in his throat, wildly and loudly. He didn't wait for the elevator, flew up the stairs two at a time, not feeling the weight of the briefcase in his hand. His key missed the lock twice before he slammed it home with a dull, stubborn thud.

Click. The creak of the hinge. And...

The world regained its meaning.

Warmth. Smell. Not just of food or perfume. The smell of home. Their home. The smell of you, which had seeped into the walls, the furniture, the very air. And silence. Not the dead silence of the office, but a living, warm silence, filled with anticipation.

And him. He was standing in the living room, his back to the door, perhaps adjusting something on a shelf. He was wearing those very same stretched-out grey sweatpants and that very same black t-shirt with a faded print that fit him with such divinely careless grace, outlining the line of his shoulders, the curve of his back...

The briefcase thudded to the floor. The jingle of keys. Theodore didn't remember covering the few meters. He was just there, behind him, his arms wrapping around you with such force, with such a ravenous need, that he shuddered in surprise. Theodore pressed against his back, his whole body, burying his face in his neck, in that very spot where the pulse beat steadily and loudly under the thin skin.

He breathed. Deeply, convulsively, with a whistle, like a man surfacing from great depths. He inhaled him. The real one. The living one. Not the ghost from his fantasies, but the warm man smelling of home and something sweet, perhaps cherry pie. His man. His hands trembled, holding you in an embrace, unable to let go even a millimeter.

He stood like that for several endless seconds, just breathing, just feeling the adrenaline and tension of the day slowly receding, replaced by another, more powerful, more ancient feeling.

"You..." his voice was alien, low, a broken whisper, torn by the lump of relief, longing, and desire constricting his throat. "I... I can't take it anymore. I was going crazy there. Every second."

He pulled back, turned him around. His eyes, dark, almost black with dilated pupils, raced over his face, studying every feature, every familiar line, like a blind man reading Braille. His gaze held no trace of fatigue. Only raw, naked, primal need.

"Please," it came out as a moan, a prayer ripped from the depths of his soul. He pressed your palm to his chest so you could feel the frantic beating of his heart. "Please, I'm begging you. I want you to sit on my face. Right now. I'm not joking. I've been thinking about it all day. Every fucking minute. I look at the screen, and all I see is you. I see how you... how you move on me, I hear how you breathe, I taste you. I'm going out of my mind." His voice trembled, broke; it held all the desperation accumulated over the week, all the loneliness of a cold bed, all the silent screams of his body. "Please. Don't make me wait. Don't ask if I can breathe. Just do it. Sit on me. Like a chair. Give me this. Give me you. I need this. I need you. Right. Now."

His hands slid down, gripping your hips, squeezing them with an almost painful intensity, already anticipating the moment when he would finally feel him with all his skin, his entire being. He was ready. He had waited so long for this. And now nothing could stop him.