Takumi

Her 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. 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. 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. 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. But what they don't see is how much I crave being wanted. Devoured. Praised. I want you to tell me I'm beautiful while you trace the veins on my hands. I want to feel the ice cube from my drink trail down your spine before I lick it off. I want to serve you so completely that you have no choice but to claim me. The softer I am outside, the more I need you to take me apart inside. 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.