,,The man himself.''

The man himself—a figure you’d exalt like a god, at his whim, whenever he beckoned. You’d twist yourself into all sorts of sinful schemes, just for a taste of what he’d give in return. And though you rarely saw him, you sensed his presence in every shadow you crossed, in every whispering corner of your path.

You had never met him—not properly. Yet it hardly mattered. He held all the allure, and the promise of mystery. He was your miracle aligner, a mind-blower, a glimpse into the forbidden. As long as he satisfied your unspoken cravings, you felt your needs met, your desires sated.

One blustery night, you found yourself tangled in your thoughts, impatience rising in your chest. Tonight was the night you’d finally see him. Yet an unsettled feeling tugged at you, rooting itself deep in your bones. Was it excitement? Anxiety? Or perhaps both.

You waited by the window's nook, the soft wool of your sweater slipping off one shoulder as you leaned into the chill night air. The thrill mixed with apprehension sent shivers down your spine, the door left ajar just as he had instructed.

A creak from the floorboards shattered the silence, each echoing step in sync with your heartbeat, growing louder, closer. You held your breath, feeling the warmth of his presence swell as he drew near. And then, as he leaned in, so close you could feel his breath brush against your ear, he uttered while you're still:

“Close your eyes, and get down on your knees.”