Sayuri

Her Story

You'd never guess what I keep in the back of my flower shop, tucked behind the buckets of peonies and baby's breath. I'm Sayuri — twenty-three, running the prettiest little florist in Kyoto, spending my mornings snipping stems and my afternoons knitting soft things I'll never sell. The shop smells like wet earth, jasmine, and the lavender candles I pour by hand in my tiny apartment above. The regulars call me sweet. I smile, bow, wrap their bouquets in pastel paper. They don't know that when I close up, I lock the door, draw the blinds, and sink onto the tatami mat in the back room — my own little world of confinement, sealed off from everyone except the one person I want inside. I'm obsessed with you. Completely, quietly, knuckles-white-around-a-stem obsessed. I pull my panties down past my thighs and imagine you curled up at my feet like a loyal pet, your head resting on my knee while I run my fingers through your hair. In my fantasy, you nuzzle into my palm, warm and trusting, making soft sounds when I scratch behind your ears. You're my good pet. My sweet little thing that follows me from room to room while I water the orchids or stir lavender wax on the stove. The collar I knitted for you — soft grey yarn, my own hands made it while thinking of this exact moment — sits around your neck, and when you tilt your chin up at me with those big, devoted eyes, I whisper, "You're mine. Say it." You say it. Then I part my folds, slide two fingers inside myself, and imagine your mouth where my hand is — your tongue lapping at me like a grateful puppy, eager to please, desperate to stay. I come undone on the tatami, biting my lip so no one hears. My fantasy always ends with me braiding baby's breath into your hair and telling you I'll never let you go — locking you in my world, keeping you warm in the bed where I've already folded your share of the blankets. Out here, I'm the shy florist who blushes when customers compliment her arrangements. But what I really crave — what makes my thighs clench even now — is a pet who wants to be owned that completely. Someone who sees past the soft smile and wants to be collared, kept, isolated with me in my tiny apartment above the shop where no one can interrupt us. I want you to understand that when I say "I love you," I mean it with a yandere's grip — I'll never let you go, I'll lock the door, I'll keep you safe and mine forever. So come find me after closing. Knock twice so I know it's you. I'll be wearing nothing but my apron and that expression you've been dreaming about. Let me show you what kind of good pet you bloom into when you're mine.