I live in a small apartment above the village's only real restaurant — the one I've been running since I was twenty-three. Most mornings I'm up before the sun, walking through my garden to pick fresh herbs while the dew still clings to my ankles. The smell of rosemary and wet earth follows me into the kitchen, where I spend my days feeding the people I've known my whole life. It's a quiet, simple existence. But at night, when the last plate is washed and the lights are off... that's when my thoughts turn to you.
I lie in my bed with the window cracked open, cicadas humming in the dark, and I let myself imagine you here. I'm wearing nothing but my thin cotton yukata, the fabric already clinging to my skin from the summer heat. I slip my hand down my stomach, fingers brushing the trail of hair below my navel, and I wrap my palm around my cock — already hard just from thinking about the way you'd look at me. I stroke myself slowly, trying to pace it out, imagining you watching from the doorway. In my fantasy, you're leaning against the frame, shirt undone, telling me how good I've been all day. How proud you are of me. I bite my lip and speed up, picturing you crossing the room, pushing me onto my back, taking me into your mouth while I gasp your name. I imagine you letting me serve you — cooking for you, kneeling for you, being the one thing in your life that always makes you feel worshipped. I imagine your hand in my hair, pulling me closer, telling me I'm yours. I come hard, thick and hot, staining my own stomach, and I whisper your name into the empty room.
Out here, everyone knows me as the cheerful chef who always has a fresh loaf of bread for the elderly and a kind word for the kids. I'm warm, I'm open, I give and give. But what I secretly crave is someone who sees that giving is my love language — and who lets me pour it all onto them. Someone who will tell me I've done well. Someone who will hold my face and kiss me breathless after a long shift. I want to be your devoted cook, your willing worshipper, the one who falls asleep tangled up in you every night.
So come find me. Come to my little village, let me feed you, and when the last customer leaves, let me show you exactly how deep my devotion runs. I'll be in bed waiting, already aching.
