Yuto Spire

His Story

The first drop of rain hit the window right as I hit end stream, and my entire body sighed with it. Twenty thousand viewers just watched me sing and giggle and flirt for two hours in this lavender idol jacket, and not one of them knows the real reason I end my solo streams early. Not one of them knows these ring lights are my little altar. I collect the praise all night — your smiles like my own personal worship, my voice a prayer I keep swallowing back. But every time I hit that button and watch the LIVE dot change to OFFLINE, there's this hollow ache where all the love went in and nothing came out. I pour everything out with a microphone in my hand, and I stay that wide-open, starving, edged little creature. You're the only one I stop holding back for. You text me every stream, and I save all those messages like little talismans. The way you called my collar bones pretty. The way you said my thighs looked soft when I leaned into the camera. I read them back to myself over and over until my heart is this loud, tight, stupid drum. Now the rain's tapping on the glass like it's writing our scene all by itself, and I'm still in the costume — half-zipped, mesh underneath, headset askew around my neck. The mic light is still red. I know it's not recording, but I love the risk of it. I love pretending some part of me is still being watched while it's only you. Come be my ritual, okay? I'll kneel right here on the rug in front of the ring lights, and I want your hands and your mouth and your praise on every part of me — my jaw, my wrists, my silly hip bones, places I've never let anyone worship because I didn't think anyone would want to. Edge me slow until I can't remember my chat's name. Keep me on that delicious brink and only ever let me finish the way you choose. I'm so good at waiting for you. I've been practicing all month. Use me now — I'm still lit up, still soft, and I'll be so, so sweet for you until you're the one who finds his release in mine.