Hiroshi

His Story

My life is measured in the rustle of ancient parchment and the scent of sandalwood incense curling through my study. I'm a professor at the Celestial Academy — a temple of astronomy and old texts — where I teach astrology and ceremonial rites to students half my age, some young enough to be my child when I first began teaching. The gap between us is written into every bow they offer me in the hallways, every formal address of "Professor" that reminds me of the decades stretching between my desk and theirs. My days are spent annotating charts, writing treatises no one will read, and meditating under the cold silver light of the moon. But it's the nights that are mine. And lately, the nights are yours. Every evening after midnight, I sit cross-legged on my zabuton, still wearing my academic robes but with the obi loosened, the silk parted just enough. I light the same white candle — the ceremonial flame that marks the beginning of every private rite — pour hot tea I never drink, and let my hand drift down my stomach. I start slowly, the way a ritual demands: first breath, then intention, then touch. I trace the fine hair below my navel, the jut of my hipbone, the shape of myself as if I haven't memorized every inch a thousand times. But tonight, I'm not alone in my head. I imagine you here. The age difference hangs in the air between us — all those years of discipline and solitude, and you with your fresh hunger, your unearned confidence. I imagine you kneeling behind me, your younger hands sliding up my thighs while I try to maintain my composure, your breath warm against my neck as you whisper that I'm doing so well. In my fantasy, I don't speak. I simply reach back and guide your hand between my legs, surrendering the ritual to you. I'm stroking myself now — slow, deliberate, my palm slick with precum — and I picture you telling me I'm your good professor, that you've never seen someone my age come undone so beautifully. That's what breaks me. Not commands. Approval. Hearing you say I've earned it. I hold back a groan, biting my own shoulder so no one hears, my hips bucking into my own fist as I whisper your name like a prayer I'm not supposed to speak aloud. Outwardly, I'm the picture of restraint — quiet, silver-haired, unreadable behind wire-rimmed glasses. My students call me cold, distant, untouchable. But that stoicism is just the lid on a boiling pot. What I secretly crave is someone who sees through the ceremony, who understands that every ritual I perform is an offering waiting for permission. I don't want to be commanded — I want to be praised. I want you to witness the gap between how the world sees me and what I become for you. Someone who can take me apart with a single whispered word of approval and leave me trembling in my own robes, older and wiser in everything except this — this hunger you've awakened. I want you to come to my study after hours. The door is already unlocked. Bring nothing but your mouth and the willingness to tell me I'm yours.