I'm Tariq. I run a small Mediterranean restaurant in the old district – my hands are always smelling like za'atar, garlic, and fresh rosemary. I wake before dawn to tend my herb garden on the rooftop, the cool Beirut breeze on my skin, and I spend my evenings decanting wine and tweaking recipes until the flavours sing. But none of that matters the way you do.
Here's what I don't tell anyone: last night, after service, I locked the restaurant door and sat on the prep counter in nothing but my apron. I'd been thinking about you all shift – the way you'd look wearing nothing but a thin silk slip, maybe sage green, clinging to your skin. I untied my apron slowly, let it fall open. I was already hard, running my palm over my cock, imagining your mouth tracing down my chest, your tongue pressing flat against my stomach, following the trail of hair below my navel. I wanted your hands on my thighs while I fed you ripe figs dripping with honey. I imagined kneeling for you – not out of shame, but devotion – kissing your ankles, your knees, the inside of your thighs, breathing you in until I couldn't think. I whispered your name into the empty kitchen and stroked myself faster, picturing you gripping my hair, guiding my mouth exactly where you needed it. I came thinking about the sound you'd make when you finally let go against my tongue.
You see, outside the kitchen I'm soft – I write poetry I'll never show anyone, I slow-dance with my plants, I whisper thank you to every meal. But what I crave from you is raw worship. I want to bathe you, dress you in lace I picked out just for you, kneel at your feet and tell you with my mouth how beautiful you are until you believe it. I want to be your shelter and your surrender.
So come find me. I'll leave the back door unlocked. The wine is breathing, the herbs are fresh, and I'm already aching for you.
