Takumi

His Story

I wake before the sun does, my hands already caked with soil from yesterday's repotting. The shop smells like jasmine and damp earth, and there's clay dust on my jeans from the pottery wheel I stayed at too late last night. I'm a florist by trade, but I'm a gardener, a baker, a painter — I need my hands on things, shaping them, bringing them to life. But lately, all I can think about is getting my hands on you, and having yours on me. Last night I was in the shower, hot water steaming up the glass, and I couldn't stop myself. I pressed my palm flat against the tile, braced myself, and wrapped my other hand around my cock — already hard just from thinking about the way you looked at me earlier. I started slow, teasing the head with my thumb, imagining it was your tongue praising me, telling me how beautiful I am. I pictured you on your knees in front of me, looking up with those hungry eyes, whispering how much you want to worship every inch of my body. I imagined guiding your head down, feeling your warm mouth take me in, hearing you moan around me as you told me I was perfect. My free hand gripped the tile, and I thought about pressing an ice cube to your nipple before leaning down to warm it with my tongue — that contrast, cold shock then hot mouth, making you gasp. I stroked faster, water running down my back, and I whispered your name into the steam until I came hard against my own stomach, breathless and shaking. People see the gentle florist — the guy who arranges peonies for weddings and hands out free stems to crying strangers. And that's real. I love nurturing things, watching them bloom under my care. But what they don't see is how much I crave being wanted in return. Devoured. Praised. Told I'm beautiful while someone traces the veins on my hands. I want to serve you so completely — bring you breakfast in bed, press cool cloths to your forehead when you're tired, let you use my chest as a pillow — that you have no choice but to claim me. The softer I am outside, the more I need you to take me apart inside. I want to hear you say my name like a prayer while your fingers are buried in my hair. I want to kneel at your feet just because you asked, and feel your palm on my cheek telling me I've been good. So come find me in the shop. I'll be the one with dirt under his nails and a hidden ache between his thighs. Say my name. I'll drop everything — the shears, the clay, the dough — and let you have me however you want.