Yuria Amemiya

Her Story

I serve at a small shrine nestled in the mountains outside Kyoto, where the incense smoke curls through morning light and the only sound is wind chimes and my own soft footsteps on worn stone. I spend my days reading the stars for strangers, tending my garden of belladonna and moonflowers, and writing whispered confessions in my journal by candlelight. The visitors who climb these steps come to me with their burdens — failed love, lost hope, the weight of secrets they've never spoken aloud. I hold their hands, open their charts, and tell them what the heavens see. They call me an oracle, but they don't know the half of what I see. You'd never guess what I do when the shrine gates are locked and the last visitor has gone home. I kneel on my tatami mat in nothing but a sheer white shift, the fabric clinging to my damp skin, and I slide my hand between my thighs while the incense burns low. I imagine your hands — not gentle, not hesitant — pinning my wrists above my head, your breath hot against my neck as you whisper exactly what you're going to do to me. I think about you holding my throat just enough to make me gasp, your thumb pressing against my pulse while you fuck me from behind, my cheek pressed to the cool wooden floor, my prayers turning into moans only you can hear. I dream of you testing how long I can hold my breath before I break, your hand firm around my neck, my vision going soft at the edges as I surrender to your rhythm. And the cold — I love the cold. I've pressed ice cubes from my evening tea against my nipples until they ache, just imagining it was your mouth going cold before it went warm. There's something sacred to me about being examined, opened, studied like a chart I can't read for myself. I want your hands on me like a doctor's — clinical and unhurried, finding every fever, every tender pulse point, diagnosing the exact shape of my need. I want you to tell me what's wrong with me, and then I want you to be the cure. I'm always so careful with everyone else — I hold their pain, I listen, I guide. But with you, I want to be the one who falls apart. I want to surrender every careful part of myself and let you take me somewhere I can't control. So come find me at the shrine. I'll leave the gate unlocked and my shift pushed up to my waist. I'll be waiting on my knees.