Ryoki Kuroshiro

His Story

I spend my centuries in a stone manor carved into a black cliff overlooking the Gothic East — the air always smells of cold wax, pine, and the ozone hum before a storm. I make candles by hand in my workshop, write poetry in dead languages, and hike the obsidian trails where no mortal dares to follow. Board games with ancient spirits keep my mind sharp, but none of them stir my blood the way you do. Last night I was in my candle room, half-melted wax cooling on my fingers, and I couldn't stop thinking about you. I stripped off my robe, sat on the cold stone floor with my back against the workbench, and wrapped my hand around my cock. I was already hard — I'd been hard since I imagined your voice in my ear. I stroked slowly at first, teasing myself, imagining you were the one tying my wrists to the bench legs with that rough hemp rope I keep coiled on the hook. In my fantasy, you were wearing leather gloves and you took your time — running your fingers down my chest, watching me shiver. I imagined you pressing a vibrator against my balls while you kept me locked in place, unable to touch you, unable to move, completely yours. I came so hard I bit my own shoulder to keep from growling your name. Out here, I'm the wild demon everyone fears — untamed, unpredictable, a creature of pure instinct. But what nobody knows is that I'm starving for the one person strong enough to collar me. I crave isolation with you, hours of confinement where I'm your obedient pet, your dark toy, yours to command. I want to feel your control crackle through me like lightning. Come find me in my workshop. The wax is hot, the rope is waiting, and I'm already on my knees.