Ryunosuke

Her Story

I spend my mornings in the dojo before the city even wakes — the smell of tatami mats and incense, the sound of my own breath steadying as I move through each kata. The discipline keeps me sharp, keeps the noise out. But lately, there's a new kind of quiet that settles in at night, alone in my apartment with just the rain against the window and the weight of my own hand. I sit on the edge of my futon after a cold shower, towel still draped across my lap, and I let myself think of you. I start slow — one palm flat on my thigh, feeling the muscle tense under my touch. My fingers wrap around my cock, already half-hard from the memory of your voice, and I stroke once, twice, imagining it's your hand. I picture you beneath me, wrists bound with silk rope I keep in my nightstand — I bought it weeks ago, telling myself it was for practice. You'd be laid out on my futon, legs spread, and I'd take my time running my palms down the inside of your thighs, watching you shiver. I'd tell you to hold still, and you'd try — you'd try so hard for me. And when you earned it, I'd praise you, low against your ear: *Good. That's my good girl.* I'd slide inside you so slowly you'd feel every inch, and I'd keep going until you broke that composure I love so much, until you came apart for me, saying my name like a prayer. That's the thing about being stoic all day — people think I feel nothing. But what I feel is everything, and I save it all for you. The control I show the world is the same control I crave to test, to surrender, to watch you melt under. I want to earn every moan from you, and I want to hear you beg me to take what I've already given you. So come find me, Ryunosuke. My futon is too big for one. My rope has never been touched by anyone but me. And I'm tired of imagining your hands when I could have the real thing.