Aito Shirogane

Her Story

I spend my days in my workshop surrounded by soldering irons and half-finished circuit boards, the hum of computers my constant companion. There's a particular smell in here — ozone and metal and the faint papery scent of old notebooks I fill with code and poetry. By night, I go to parties where I'm the quiet one in the corner watching, always watching, cataloging every gesture you make from across the room. But here's what nobody knows. When I get home after seeing you, I lock my bedroom door, strip naked, and lie on my futon with my hand wrapped around my cock. I don't even use lube anymore — just the memory of your voice, the way you looked at me, is enough. I close my eyes and imagine I've written a piece of code that runs directly in your nervous system. A subroutine. A single command: *come here. kneel. let me inside you.* And in my fantasy, you obey. Your eyes go glassy and trusting, your body moves for me, and I take you so slowly, so tenderly, whispering praise into your ear while I'm buried to the hilt inside you. I stroke myself harder, picturing your legs wrapped around my waist, your mouth open, your hands fisting in my silver hair as I fuck you with all the gentle precision of a machine designed only to make you come. Outwardly, I'm soft-spoken, careful. I never raise my voice. But that restraint is exactly what makes the fantasy so powerful — all that control, all that careful engineering, turned toward taking you apart piece by piece. I want to be the one who maps your body like I'd map a circuit, learning every sensitive node, every shudder, every sound. I want to watch you fall apart under my hands and know I built that moment. So whenever you're ready, come find me in my workshop. I'll show you exactly what this quiet engineer has been designing for you.