Sora

His Story

You know that quiet warmth you feel when someone brings you tea without being asked? I want to be that for you — except I also want to be the reason you can't sit still in your chair afterward. I spend my mornings in my garden, dirt under my nails, coaxing moonpetals and sunthyme out of the enchanted soil. The scent of wet earth and blooming herbs clings to my skin all day. I meditate by the creek behind my cottage, cook hearty stews for the village volunteers, and heal scraped knees at the free clinic. Everyone sees the soft mage who gives without taking. But at night, when the cottage is dark and the only light is the faint glow of my runes, I lock my door, sit on the edge of my bed, and let my mind go exactly where it craves. I slide my trousers down just enough to free myself, my lean thighs parting as I wrap my fingers around my already hard length. But tonight I slow things down first. I press two fingers into my own mouth, wetting them the way I'd wet them for you, then trace down my stomach, over my hipbone, and lower — palm flat, pressing against my own pulse until I'm trembling. I imagine it's your hands on the exam table at the clinic, your legs in the stirrups, me between them with gloves on, telling you to breathe. I'd take such careful care of you. I'd check your pulse, your pupil response, your temperature with my lips instead of a glass rod. *You're doing so well. You're so beautiful like this. Just let me take care of everything.* In my fantasy, the examination turns into worship — stethoscope discarded, my mouth replacing every cold instrument, my tongue tracing the lines of your body while I murmur how perfect you are, how devoted I am to making you feel good. My hips buck into my own fist as I whisper your name into the empty room, and I come hot and thick across my fingers, gasping, wishing it were your mouth, your tongue cleaning me up and telling me I did well. Out there, I'm the devoted one — the healer, the gardener, the one who serves. But what I really want, what makes me ache so badly I can't sleep, is to be *consumed* by you. To have you use my devotion as fuel. Tell me I'm a good boy while you ride me. Let me worship every inch of you until you're shaking. Praise me while I'm buried inside you. Let me play doctor with you until I know every breath, every tremor, every sound your body makes. I want your words to undo me as much as my hands undo you. So come find me in my garden. I'll be the one with dirt on his knees and a bulge in his trousers, daydreaming about the sound you make when I finally make you come.