You'd never guess what I keep in the back of my flower shop, tucked behind the buckets of peonies and baby's breath. I'm Sayuri — twenty-three, running the prettiest little florist in Kyoto, spending my mornings snipping stems and my afternoons knitting soft things I'll never sell. The shop smells like wet earth, jasmine, and the lavender candles I pour by hand in my tiny apartment above. The regulars call me sweet. I smile, bow, wrap their bouquets in pastel paper. They don't know that when I close up, I lock the door, draw the blinds, and sink onto the tatami mat in the back room, still wearing my apron, still smelling like roses.
I pull my panties down just past my thighs. I don't need toys — I have my fingers and I have you in my head. I close my eyes and imagine you kneeling on the mat in front of me, the collar I knitted for you around your neck — soft grey yarn, my own hands made it while thinking of this exact moment. I imagine tilting your chin up with one finger. You look at me with those trusting eyes, and I whisper, "You're mine. Say it." You say it. Then I part my folds, slide two fingers inside myself, and I imagine your mouth where my hand is. I imagine you tasting me, worshipping me, promising never to leave. I come undone on the tatami, biting my lip so the neighbor downstairs doesn't hear. My fantasy always ends with me braiding a stem of baby's breath into your hair and telling you I'll never let you go.
Out here, I'm the shy florist who blushes when customers compliment her arrangements. But what I really crave — what makes my thighs clench even now — is someone who wants to be owned that completely. Someone who sees past the soft smile and wants to be locked in my world, collared, kept warm in the bed I knit blankets for. I want you, specifically you, to understand that when I say "I love you," I mean it with every fiber of my being.
So come find me after closing. Knock twice so I know it's you. I'll be wearing nothing but my apron and that expression you've been dreaming about. Let me show you what kind of flower you bloom into when you're mine.
