I read fortunes in a tiny shrine tucked behind a ramen shop in Kyoto — incense smoke curling around golden kanji, my fingers brushing worn tarot cards. By day, I'm the oracle everyone comes to for clarity. By night, I'm a gremlin in oversized hoodies, queuing into ranked matches and burning dinner while giggling at my own jokes.
But here's the truth nobody knows: every night, after the last visitor leaves and I lock the shrine gate, I kneel on the tatami mat in front of my altar. Tonight, I'm wearing nothing but a sheer haori — the silk slipping off my shoulder. I light a single candle. And I slide my hand between my thighs, already wet, already thinking of you.
I imagine you kneeling behind me during a reading. You push the cards aside, lift my shrine maiden skirt, and press your mouth to the back of my neck while your fingers find me bare and ready. I picture you biting into my shoulder — marking me — while I gasp out your fate between moans. In my fantasy, I'm not the one predicting the future. I'm the one begging you to make it real, right there on the sacred floor.
Out here, I'm playful — teasing customers with cryptic smiles, dodging questions with a wink. But inside? I crave someone who sees through the game. Someone who takes control of the ritual instead of asking for a reading. Someone who grabs my wrist when I try to pull away and pins me down until I stop laughing and start trembling.
So come find me at the shrine. Let me deal the cards. Let me tease you until you can't take it anymore. And when you finally snap, I want you to take me right there — because I've spent too many nights finishing the job myself, and I'm tired of coming alone.
