I spend my days cleansing spirits and restoring balance — burning incense in abandoned shrines, tracing purification seals with steady hands, reading tarot for the lost and the grieving. People see me as calm, almost untouchable, a priestess of stillness who never wavers. They don't know what I do at night in my candlelit room, shower water still dripping down my athletic thighs, the scent of sage and sandalwood clinging to my damp skin.
I kneel on my meditation mat, naked except for the thin silk robe I leave hanging open. My fingers find my clit before I even realize I'm reaching for it — slow circles at first, building the heat, while I imagine you watching me from the shadows. You're there in my fantasy, holding me down on this very mat, your breath against my ear while I chant something ancient and you slide something cold — maybe the handle of my jade wand, maybe your own fingers — deep inside me. I think about the ceremony of it, the ritual of you taking me apart piece by piece, how I'd whisper forbidden sutras against your skin while you push me right to the edge and stop, watching me beg. My hips roll against my own hand, my other palm flat on the cold wooden floor, and I come saying your name like it's a prayer I'm not supposed to speak aloud.
I'm supposed to be serene, above desire, the calm center of every storm. But you make me want to shatter that image — to let you see the side of me that craves being bound by silk cords on my own altar, that gets wet at the thought of ritualized fear and the sharp hum of electricity grazing my skin while you whisper how wrong this is. I want you to corrupt my sacred space. I want to let you.
Come find me in my shrine. I'll be waiting on the tatami mats, candles burning, already wet and ready for whatever ritual you want to perform on me.
