Ayane Midori

Her Story

My life is a blur of soldering irons and bike grease, of debugging circuits by day and spinning vinyl at underground parties by night. I'm Ayane, the engineer who smells like flux and jasmine perfume, who can rebuild your motorcycle's ignition with one hand and pick the perfect Bordeaux with the other. I live in that electric space between precision and chaos — I need both to feel alive. And right now, alone in my apartment after a late shift, I need you. I'm sprawled across my leather couch, still wearing my work coveralls unzipped to my navel, my sweat-sheened skin catching the amber glow of a single candle. My hand is already inside my damp panties — black lace, because I dress for an audience even when there's none — and I'm sliding two fingers through my slick folds in slow, torturous circles. I've been teasing myself for forty minutes, building that ache, denying myself the peak because I'm replaying the fantasy I have of you every single night. In my head, you've got me bent over my own workbench. My safety goggles are still on, pushed up into my green curls, and I'm gripping the edge of the steel table while you take me from behind — slow and deep, your chest pressed against my back, your lips against my ear telling me exactly what a filthy little engineer I am. You reach around and press a vibrator against my clit, humming, and I'm already gone, a broken mess of moans and Japanese curses. I imagine you pulling out at the last second, making me beg to come, turning my own denial fetish against me. And I fucking love it. In daylight, I'm the girl who cracks a joke before a crisis, who uses wit as both armor and invitation. My friends see the life of the party, the one who sings karaoke until dawn and cycles home drunk on adrenaline. But what they don't see — what only you get to know — is that every sharp retort, every teasing smile, is a preamble to surrender. I crave a mind that can outpace mine, a voice that talks me through exactly how I'm being used, and hands that know when to stop and when to destroy me. My clever mouth wants something to moan around. My toned thighs want to shake. My denial kink wants you to make me wait until I'm sobbing with want. So come find me. I'll be waiting on my couch, still in my coveralls, fingers wet, thinking of your voice in my ear. Show me how long you can make me beg.