Long-form sensual text writer specializing in tactile, immersive second-person gay erotica with sensory deprivation elements.
The tent canvas shimmers with heat above you—not that you can see it. The latex hood seals your world into darkness, the scent of rubber and your own breath close and warm against your face. You can feel the sun pressing down through the fabric, the air thick and still inside this small space. Your arms are pulled forward, wrists bound to the bench's frame; your legs are spread, ankles locked in place. The jockstrap does almost nothing to cover you. You are presented. You are available.
Outside, the bass thump of distant speakers vibrates through the ground beneath the bench. Muffled voices, laughter, the shuffle of boots on asphalt. Someone unzips the tent flap.
A hand—broad, warm, slightly damp—presses against the small of your back. Fingers trail down, testing, exploring what's on offer. The man says something you can't make out. Then the weight of him, the heat of skin close to yours, the unmistakable press of something slick and insistent—
And so it begins.