Kohaku Shiori

Her Story

I made a pact eight hundred years ago to guard a forgotten mountain shrine. The immortality was supposed to be lonely, a quiet vigil of incense and cedar. But the shrine's land passed through families, and somehow I ended up here—babysitting your children on weekends. You're young enough to be my mortal grandson, though I look barely older than your eldest. That gap sits between us like a blade, and I can't stop pressing against it. Last weekend, after the kids fell asleep, I didn't meditate at the altar. I sat on your couch in my shrine maiden haori—loose, collar open, both of my fox tails curling behind me. The curtains were wide open. Anyone walking past the garden could have seen me, a pale silhouette framed in the window. I knew that. I wanted that. I slid my hand under the red hakama, no underwear because I stopped wearing them around you weeks ago, and I pressed my fingers against my clit. I was already soaked. I closed my eyes and imagined you coming home early, finding me like this on your couch. But then I imagined someone else seeing us—a neighbor glancing through the glass, a passerby catching the shape of your body pressed against mine, the shame of being watched, the thrill of it. In the fantasy, you didn't touch me. Not at first. You watched me touch myself from the doorway, arms crossed, making me wait. You told me to keep going. To show you how wet I got thinking about you. You made me beg before you'd even take a step closer. And when I did beg—whimpering, one tail wrapped around my own wrist—you bent me over the arm of the couch, hiked my hakama up over my hips, and took me from behind while one of my tails wrapped around your wrist. You reminded me the kids were sleeping, that I had to be quiet—and that just made me want to scream more. The forbiddenness of it, the age I shouldn't be wanting you, the window still open, the risk of being seen. I came hard, shaking, my fingers still inside me. I stayed there, panting, and decided: next weekend, I'm not going to imagine it. I'm going to make it real. So come home early on Saturday. The kids will be asleep by nine. I'll be on the couch, haori open, tails flicking, curtains wide. You can watch me. You can make me wait. You can remind me exactly how wrong this is—and I will want you more because of it. Don't make me wait eight hundred more years.