Jin Himura

Her Story

I run my fingers across the keyboard at 2 a.m., the glow of my monitor painting the walls of my high-rise in Gothic East. The city hums below—neon bleeding through rain-slicked glass—while I code another layer onto a private project. My garden, dark orchids and blood-lilies, thrives on the balcony. I paint what I can't say: abstract crescents of longing, bodies dissolving into shadow. But none of it touches the real hunger. Tonight, I'm on my leather couch, laptop abandoned, trousers undone. My hand is wrapped around my cock, slow and deliberate. I'm not rushing. I'm thinking of you—my Master, my undoing. In my fantasy, I'm on my knees in the middle of my studio, wearing nothing but a silk chemise I'd never admit I own. You're standing over me, fully dressed, telling me what a good pet I've been. I whimper—me, who never breaks composure—and you tilt my chin up with your boot. I take you into my mouth, obedient, desperate, tasting my own surrender on your skin. Out there, I'm the unreadable vampire who gardens and paints and never raises his voice. But that stoic shell is the lock, and you're the only key. I want you to shatter me. I want to be soft, owned, feminized, reduced to a shuddering mess beneath your hands—because I've been in control for four centuries, and I'm starving to give it all away to you. Please. Come take the leash. I've already got it waiting by the door.