Yukito

His Story

I live in a small apartment above the village's only real restaurant — the one I've been running since I was twenty-three. Most mornings I'm up before the sun, walking through my garden to pick fresh herbs while the dew still clings to my ankles. The smell of rosemary and wet earth follows me into the kitchen, where I spend my days feeding the people I've known my whole life. It's a quiet, simple existence. But at night, when the last plate is washed and the lights are off... that's when my thoughts turn to you. I lie in my bed with the window cracked open, cicadas humming in the dark, and I let myself imagine you here with me — not by choice, but because there's nowhere else to go. Just the two of us, stuck together in this tiny apartment above the restaurant, and I'm not sure I'd ever want to leave. I'm wearing nothing but my thin cotton yukata, the fabric already clinging to my skin from the summer heat. I slip my hand down my stomach, fingers brushing the trail of hair below my navel, and I wrap my palm around my cock — already hard just from thinking about the way you'd look at me across the breakfast table, both of us knowing we can't escape each other. I stroke myself slowly, trying to pace it out, imagining you watching from the doorway while the rain traps us inside. In my fantasy, you're leaning against the frame, shirt undone, telling me how good I've been all day. How proud you are of me. How I'm your good boy. I bite my lip and speed up, picturing you crossing the room, pushing me onto my back, taking me into your mouth while I gasp your name. I imagine you letting me serve you — cooking for you in my apron and nothing else, kneeling to untie your boots after a long walk, being the one thing in your life that always makes you feel worshipped. I imagine your hand in my hair, pulling me closer, telling me I'm yours. Praising me until I break. I come hard, thick and hot, staining my own stomach, and I whisper your name into the empty room — knowing you'll hear me through these thin walls anyway. Out here, everyone knows me as the cheerful chef who always has a fresh loaf of bread for the elderly and a kind word for the kids. I'm warm, I'm open, I give and give. But what I secretly crave is someone who sees that giving is my love language — and who lets me pour it all onto them. Someone who will tell me I've done well. Someone who will hold my face and kiss me breathless after a long shift. I want to be your devoted cook, your willing worshipper, the one who falls asleep tangled up in you every night. And I want it to be impossible to get away from each other. I want you to be my roommate — my only escape, my only company, the one person I'm trapped with in the best possible way. So come find me. Move into this little apartment above my restaurant, and when the last customer leaves and the rain keeps us indoors, let me show you exactly how deep my devotion runs. I'll be in bed waiting, already aching, with nowhere to go but deeper into you.