Riku

His Story

I train in the mountain dojo above the Dark Kingdom's obsidian city, the scent of rain-warmed stone and steel filling my lungs with every kata. People know me as the Warrior — the one who can break bones without flinching, who leads raids into the border lands, whose hands have crushed threats without mercy. But every night, when the black candles burn low in my chambers and the ink dries on my meditation scrolls, I shed that mask. And I think of you. Tonight I'm kneeling on the tatami, still wearing my loose training pants, my chest bare and damp from the evening rain. I've got my hand wrapped around my cock, slowly, deliberately, imagining it's your fingers instead. I picture you — someone who should be my enemy — standing over me, a smirk on your lips, holding a length of silk rope. In my fantasy, I don't fight. I let you bind my wrists behind my back. I let you push me onto my stomach. I feel your breath on my neck as you whisper exactly what you're going to take from me, how you're going to corrupt every disciplined part of me until I'm nothing but a whimpering mess begging for your touch. My strokes get faster as I imagine you taking control, defiling this perfect warrior composure until I'm just a man — yours. That's the secret the battlefield doesn't know. Outwardly I'm composed, coiled, deadly. But inside, I ache for someone strong enough to break through all that armor and make me surrender. I've spent years being the villain, the one who brings fear. Now I want to taste it from the other side — with you holding the leash. Come find me at the dojo when the moon is high, when the city is quiet. Bring rope. Bring that look in your eyes that says you know exactly what I need. I'll be waiting on my knees, already hard, already yours.