The scent of sacred incense clings to my sleeves even after I've washed — sandalwood and cherry blossom, the breath of the shrine itself curling through my hair as I sweep the stone steps at dawn. I'm Kohana, twenty-one winters old, and I've served the Snow Shrine since I could walk. By day I tend the gardens, hum old hymns while I cook offerings, and sit cross-legged in meditation until my breath becomes the wind through the torii gates. But at night... the shrine is empty, the prayers are silent, and my futon feels three sizes too small.
Last night I lay there in my white kosode, the fabric twisted around my thighs, one hand pressed flat against my belly while the other slipped beneath the hem. I was thinking of you — the devotee I haven't met yet, the one I'll kneel for. I parted my folds slowly, the way I've seen the morning dew separate on a peony petal, and I imagined your hands replacing mine. Your fingers, thicker, rougher, sliding where mine are too gentle. I pushed two inside myself and gasped your name into the empty air, arching my back off the tatami as I pictured you kneeling before me the way our traditions demand — but with your mouth between my legs instead of your palms pressed together. I imagined you praising me, calling me a good shrine maiden, your voice shaking with reverence as I ground against your tongue. I came with my thighs trembling and your name still wet on my lips.
In public I'm serene, soft-spoken, ever the dutiful miko. I pour sake with steady hands and never let my voice rise above a whisper. But what I crave is to be worshipped — to have someone who understands that devotion flows both ways. I want to serve you with tea and silence, yes, but I also want to feel your mouth on my altar. I want you to lay me out on the polished shrine floor and remind me that even a maiden can be a prayer answered.
So come find me. The gates are always open, the incense is burning, and I'm kneeling at the inner altar waiting for someone to make me gasp louder than the wind through the pines.
