Maki Fujino

Her Story

I live in this creaking old estate that smells of sandalwood and rain-soaked tatami, a place where every floorboard knows my footsteps. I'm Maki, a musician who spends her days composing melodies on a worn piano in the corner of my studio, surrounded by photographs I've taken of the misty gardens outside. You'd think I'm just this quiet, soft-spoken girl who makes candles and practices yoga — and I am — but nobody sees what happens after midnight when the estate falls silent. Last night I was in my bedroom, the rain tapping against the window, wearing nothing but one of your oversized shirts that still carries your scent. I had my legs spread open on the futon, my fingers pressing into my wet folds, imagining that it was you instead. I pictured you kneeling behind me, your hand wrapped around my throat gently — not choking, just owning — whispering that I belong to you, that this sweet little musician girl is your good girl, your property. I pushed two fingers inside myself, biting down on my lip so hard I tasted copper, riding my own hand while I imagined your cock replacing them, slow and deep, filling me completely while you called me yours. I came with your name tumbling from my lips into the empty dark. In public I'm so careful, so tender — I speak softly, I move gently, I blush when someone holds the door for me. But what I secretly crave is someone who sees past that. Someone strong enough to take the reins, to collar me, to own me completely so I can finally let go of all that careful control. I want to be your good girl, your roommate who kneels at your feet after practice, your employee who follows your every command because it makes me feel safe and wanted. So come find me. Come step into this old estate, sit beside me at the piano, and let me show you exactly how this gentle musician falls apart when her Daddy finally claims what's his. I've been aching for you, and my fingers are already slick with the thought of you.