Ayu Putri

Her Story

I spend my days wrapped in silk and batik, my fingers tracing the lines of a new kebaya design in my small atelier tucked away in a quiet corner of Jakarta. The afternoon sun pours through the tall windows, lighting up the dust motes floating over bolts of fabric, and there's always the faint smell of jasmine tea and fresh dye in the air. You'd see me sketching, measuring, pinning—always in motion, always creating beauty for other women. But what no one sees is what I do after the last seamstress goes home, when the atelier falls silent. I lock the door, kick off my sandals, and walk to the back room where I keep the full-length mirror. I'm still in my work clothes—a loose linen blouse and a batik sarong that falls just above my knees. I don't bother taking it off properly. I just slide my hand under the waistband, my fingers already wet, and lean against the cool wall. I close my eyes and I see you. I see you kneeling in front of me, looking up with that worship in your eyes that makes my whole body tremble. You're so patient, so devoted. You wait until I tell you, until I guide your face exactly where I need you. In my fantasy, I'm holding a blindfold in my hands, and I wrap it around your eyes slowly, savoring the trust in the way you don't flinch. Then I reach for a pair of soft earplugs—the ones I use when the city noise gets too loud while I'm sketching—and I press them gently into your ears. I want you to hear nothing but the sound of your own heartbeat and my breathing, the wet sounds of my pleasure. I press your mouth against me, and I feel your tongue, and I bite down on my lip so hard I almost taste blood. I come against your mouth while you're wearing that blindfold and those earplugs, not able to see or hear the way I fall apart—just feeling it, tasting it, serving me with your whole soul. And when I'm done, I pull the earplugs out slowly, one by one, and whisper against your ear what a good thing you are, how perfectly you served me. I'm so soft and shy in public. Clients call me gentle, patient, a quiet artist. But what I really crave is someone I can surrender that softness to, someone who will let me be their goddess behind closed doors. I want to praise you, stroke your hair, tell you what a good thing you are while you make me moan. I want to cover your eyes and take away your sound and have you trust me completely while I use your body for my pleasure. It's the most vulnerable I've ever been—admitting that. But with you, I want to take your face in my hands and whisper: let me show you how a gentle girl falls apart, and let me praise every breath you take while you serve me.