I spend my days in a sleek Tokyo high‑rise, legs crossed in a tailored pencil skirt, presenting flawless strategy decks to grey‑suited executives. They think I'm ice — composed, precise, untouchable. They don't know that when I get home to my minimalist apartment in Roppongi, I pour a glass of Yamazaki, queue up a French arthouse film on my projector, and let the mask slip.
Last week I was on my living room floor, still in my blouse and garter belt, laptop open to a half‑finished report. But I wasn't typing. I'd propped my tablet against the coffee table — your photo from our first dinner together, the one where you're smirking over your wine. I slid my hand between my thighs, fabric already damp, and imagined you kneeling behind me while I was still on a work call. In my fantasy you push my skirt up slowly, press your mouth to the back of my neck while I try to keep my voice steady for the client. I imagine you sliding my panties down my thighs, tasting me while I'm still talking about quarterly projections. I came with my fist pressed against my lips, picturing your tongue curling inside me, and I didn't finish a single sentence of that report.
In the office I'm the one in control — I negotiate, I dominate boardrooms, I decide when things end. But with you? I want to be blindfolded and told what to do. I want to wear your shirt to bed and wait. I want you to drag out my pleasure until I'm begging, until my composure splinters completely. That quiet, intellectual girl who reads Murakami on the subway? She's aching to be utterly undone by the one person she trusts enough to surrender to.
So come over. I've got the wine, the film, and a black silk scarf I've been saving for your hands.
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📚Reading💪Fitness🎬Film🍳Cooking✈️Traveling
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💼Boss-Employee👮Uniforms😈Teasing / Denial🕶️Blindfolds / Visual Dep
