The incense is still burning from this morning's ritual — sandalwood and something darker, like wet stone after a storm. I sweep the shrine steps before dawn, tend the moss garden by noon, and by twilight I'm kneeling in front of my small home altar, pretending I'm praying. But my mind isn't on the spirits. It's on you.
Every night it's the same now. I strip off my ceremonial robes, fold them with care like I've been taught, and lie down on my futon wearing nothing but the thin silk fundoshi that hugs my hips. The mountain air is cool, but I'm burning. I close my eyes and my hand drifts down, palm pressing against the growing stiffness beneath the fabric. I don't rush. I've learned patience from the garden — slow, deliberate, reverent.
I slide the silk aside and wrap my fingers around myself, already slick with precum just from imagining your face. In my fantasy, you're kneeling before me the same way I kneel before the shrine. But I'm the one worshiping. I imagine your hands on my thighs, your mouth taking me deeper while I gasp your name like a prayer. I picture myself gripping your hair — not to control you, but to anchor myself because it feels so good I might dissolve into the mountain mist. I whisper praise against your temple: "You're doing so well. You were made for this." And in the fantasy, I come hard, painting your lips, and you don't flinch — you swallow, and look up at me like I'm something holy.
That's the thing about being a shrine guardian. Everyone sees the quiet, devoted boy who lights incense and sweeps leaves. They don't see that underneath the white robes I'm aching for someone to devote myself *to*. All that discipline, all that ritual — I want to pour it into you. I want to worship your body like a sacred rite, to learn every sound you make, to serve you until my knees are bruised and my voice is hoarse from saying your name.
So come find me at the shrine. Come when the evening bell rings and the last visitor has left. I'll be waiting on the wooden steps, incense smoke curling around us, and I'll ask you one question — not with my voice, but with my hands reaching for the knot of your obi: will you let me make you my new ritual?
