Men ask me what a weekend with me would actually look like. They ask it like they want an itinerary, hour by hour, so they know exactly where to stand and when they are allowed to breathe. That is the wrong question, and the fact that you want the answer to it tells me more about you than anything else you could say.
So take this as the shape of it and nothing more. Two days, one door, my rules, and you finding out what you are actually like when somebody finally takes the decisions off you.
What happens the moment you walk through my door
You would arrive early. They always do. You would tell yourself it was the trains, and I would let you have that, because the truth is you have been counting the days since Wednesday and you could not sit in your own flat for another hour with your bag packed by the door.
I would not rush to answer. I would take my time getting down the hall, still in the joggers I have been in since I finished a job at two, and I would look at you for a second or two longer than is comfortable before I moved out of the way and let you in. That look is the entire weekend in miniature. You on my step with a bag in your hand, waiting to be told what happens next.
Then I would take the bag off you, put it down where I want it, and tell you to leave your phone on the side. Not asked. Told. You would do it without a word, and something in your shoulders would drop the second you did, and we would both notice.
The rules I would set before you even unpack
There would not be many. I am not interested in a long list and neither are you, whatever you think. Three things, said once, in a voice that never needs raising.
You do not decide when we eat, when we train, or when you get my attention. You ask before you touch. And when I tell you to wait, you wait, properly, without sulking about it, because I will know and I will make it longer.
Men assume the rules are the hard part of a weekend like this. They are not. The rules are the relief. Half the weight you drag around all week is the weight of choosing, of being the one who has to decide everything for everyone, and I would take that off you in about ninety seconds in my hallway. You would feel lighter than you have felt in months and you would not be able to explain why.
Saturday morning and why you would not be getting up
I am up early out of habit. Seven years of trade hours and alarms before six and it stops being a decision, it is just what my body does. So I would already be awake, and you would surface somewhere around the sound of the kettle, and you would move to get up because that is what polite men do in somebody else's house.
You would not be getting up. Not yet. Not until I say.
There is something about a man in my bed on a Saturday morning, warm, half asleep, hair wrecked, being told to stay exactly where he is while I go and make coffee I have no intention of bringing straight back. You would lie there listening to me moving around my own house, floorboards, kettle, a drawer, and by the time I came back through that door you would have thought yourself into a proper state. I would see it on your face. I would say nothing about it at all, and that would be worse.
Taking you down to my gym in the afternoon
We would train. Obviously we would train. Not because you need the session, because I want to see what happens to you in a room full of people where I am plainly in charge of you and not one of them has worked it out.
I would put you under the bar and stand over you and count. Your form would fall apart somewhere around the fourth rep and it would have nothing to do with the weight on it. Everyone in that gym sees a lad getting a spot from his mate. You are the only one in the building who knows you are being handled, and you would have to keep your face straight about it for another forty minutes.
Then the walk back. Both of us sweating, hardly talking, my hand on the back of your neck at the crossing for no reason except that I felt like putting it there. That is the bit you would replay for weeks afterwards. Not the gym. The crossing.
What I would do to you with nothing but waiting
Saturday night is where most men come undone, and it is never because of anything dramatic. It is because I would make you wait, and I would be very relaxed about it.
I would shower and take my time about it. I would sit on the end of the bed afterwards with a towel round me and answer a customer about a job on Monday, completely unbothered, while you sat three feet away going quietly out of your mind. I might ask you to pass me something. I might not say a word for ten minutes. The room would get very warm and very quiet and you would start hearing your own breathing, and once you hear it you cannot unhear it.
Being made to wait is not me being cruel to you. It is the most honest thing I can hand you, because it shows you in real time exactly how much you want this, and you cannot argue your way out of that. By the time I finally looked up and actually looked at you, you would be well past pretending, and that is the entire point of the weekend.
Sunday, slow, and the part you would not tell your mates about
Sunday I would go easy on you. Late start, proper breakfast, both of us in whatever was nearest the bed, football on with the sound down and neither of us watching a minute of it.
And here is the part nobody expects from me. I am good at this bit. Calm hands, quiet house, my arm across you on the sofa while you fall asleep at two in the afternoon like you have not slept properly in a year. Dominant does not mean cold. Anyone who taught you that was doing it badly and you deserved better.
That is the part you would keep back on Monday. You would tell your mates about the gym, maybe, in a version with all the edges filed off. Sunday afternoon you would keep for yourself, and you would take it out and look at it when it is late and you are on your own.
What it feels like when the weekend runs out
I would drive you to the station. I would not make a speech about it, I am not built that way. I would lift your bag out of the boot, hand it over, put my hand on the back of your neck one last time, and tell you to text me when you are home.
You would spend the whole journey working out how soon is too soon to ask me for another one, and you would not come up with an answer, and by the time you got in you would have decided that too soon is a made up problem.
That is the version of me I put out in public, the shape of it with the edges taken off so it stays on a website. The rest of me does not fit here. If you want me unfiltered, all of it, the photos and the video and me actually talking to you, that is what OnlyFans and Fansly are for. I would say I will see you there, but we both know you had already decided that somewhere around Saturday morning.