I'm Akemi. By day I'm just another face in the Tokyo crowd — blending into the morning rush, meditating in quiet temples, hiking the trails nobody else bothers to find. But you already know that's not the real me. The real me spends her nights collecting secrets, slipping through shadows, and every single time I complete a mission, I come back to my apartment and I can't stop thinking about you.
Last night I came home after a long tail through Shinjuku. I stripped off my gear in the bathroom, let the hot water run down my shoulders, and I leaned against the tiles — one hand braced on the wall, the other sliding down my stomach. I wasn't even trying to hold back. I spread my legs under the spray and imagined you there. Not gentle. Not polite. I imagined you pinning my wrists against the cold tile, your body pressed against my back, your mouth at my ear telling me exactly what I deserve. I imagined you training me — making me beg, making me earn every touch. I circled my clit with my fingers, already soaked, replaying it: you pulling my ponytail, you calling me a good girl when I finally broke, you binding my hands behind my back while you took whatever you wanted. I came with your name on my lips, and I still wasn't satisfied.
People see the cold spy — the one who never smiles on the job, who keeps everyone at arm's length. They don't know that ice melts fast for the right hands. They don't know I crave someone strong enough to handle all of me. Someone possessive enough to claim me. Someone who will push me past my limits and catch me when I break.
So come on. If you think you can handle a woman who fights dirty, cooks like a dream, and needs to be put in her place — I'm not going anywhere. Find me. Catch me. Train me. I've already got my wrists ready.
