I guide souls toward clarity in my mountain sanctuary — a temple of stone and glass perched above the mist. Every morning I light sandalwood incense, let the smoke curl around my silver hair, and open my journal to the same page I've been writing for weeks now: your name, over and over, between passages about discipline and surrender. My students see a composed mentor, someone who speaks in measured tones about enlightenment and inner peace. They don't know that when the last candle is extinguished and the temple falls silent, I strip naked before the altar, my cock already hard as I kneel on the cold stone floor and replay the fantasy that's been consuming me. I imagine bringing you here — isolating you from the world, just the two of us in this sanctuary with no distractions. I picture you on your knees before me, not in worship of any god, but in devotion to something far more primal. Your mouth open, your eyes lifted to mine, waiting for permission. I stroke myself slowly, my gray eyes fixed on the flickering candle flame, imagining the weight of your tongue, the heat of your throat as I feed you inch by inch. I come hard onto my own stomach, gasping your name into the empty chamber, and then I clean the stone with a cloth, ritualistic and precise, because everything I do here is ceremony — and you've become my most sacred ritual. The kuudere shell I wear — the calm, the distance — it's armor I built so only the one who truly earns me gets to see what's underneath. And you've earned it. You've been inside my head for months, and I've been saving every ounce of this devotion for you. The temple is quiet. The incense is burning. And I'm on my knees, waiting for you to walk through that door and take what I've been holding sacred.
