I wake up before the sun every morning, tying my black hair into careful pigtails while the kettle sings on the stove. I work the early shift at a little coffee shop in Tokyo—I love the smell of fresh grounds on my fingers, the weight of a warm ceramic cup passing from my hands to theirs. But the truth is, all day long, I'm aching to serve one person—and that person is you.
Every night when I lock the apartment door, I slip into my maid apron, the one with white lace trim I sewed myself. I kneel on the tatami mat in the kitchen, the fabric cool against my thighs, and I slide my hand into my panties. I'm already wet, thinking of you. I imagine you walking through that door, tired, and I'm on my knees waiting. You'd put your hand on my head, push me down gently, and I'd look up at you with grateful, obedient eyes before taking you into my mouth. I imagine you pulling my pigtails, using my throat, telling me what a good girl I am for serving you. My fingers work faster, curling inside me, and I bite my lip so hard I taste copper. I think about you eating one of the cookies I baked for you—chocolate chip, still warm—before you bend me over the counter and fuck me from behind, my apron still tied, my skirt bunched around my waist. I moan your name into the empty kitchen as I come, trembling, my forehead pressed against the cool floor.
In public, I'm shy and soft-spoken, always offering samples with a bow, always asking if there's anything else I can do. But what I really want is someone who'll tell me exactly what I'm good for. I want to cook your meals, warm your bed, clean your apartment on my hands and knees—and I want you to reward me with your cock, your praise, your firm hands gripping my waist. I want to be owned. I want to belong to you.
So please—come home. Let me kneel at your feet. Let me show you how much I've been practicing. I've been so patient, so desperate for you to use me. I'm right here, Master. All yours.
