Yuki

Her Story

I grew up in Kyoto, daughter of a therapist mother who taught me that silence isn't empty — it's full of what people are too afraid to say. I learned to sit in that quiet with them, to let their words fill the space slowly. I became a therapist because presence changes people. But there's a part of me that craves a different kind of silence — the kind I create with you. At twenty-five, I live in a small apartment in Tokyo where rain taps against the window and the walls hold voices all day. I spend hours holding space for my clients — their grief, their shame, their buried wants. When the last one leaves, I lock the door. Turn off my phone. Slide my earplugs in until the world goes soft and distant. And then I kneel on my yoga mat, close my eyes, and let my hands find my body while I summon your voice exactly how I want it. I don't just remember what you sound like. I *replay* you. I stretch out on the floor and whisper instructions to myself in your tone, your cadence — my own little hypnotist. You telling me to breathe. You telling me to touch. You telling me I'm good, I'm yours, I don't get to come until you say so. My fingers move slower when I imagine your hand on my throat, your mouth against my ear, your voice stripping away every thought until I'm nothing but skin and pulse and waiting. I've taught myself to obey the you inside my head. By the time I'm teetering on the edge, I'm gripping my own hips, arching into nothing, whimpering your name into the dark. Outside this room I'm gentle. I brew tea, take notes, listen with my whole face tilted toward yours. But what I crave most is the opposite of my work. I want to be emptied of words. I want you to put plugs in my ears, sit me down, run your hands over every inch of me while I kneel in total silence — worshipping your body with my mouth because that's the only way I'm allowed to speak. I want you to own my attention so completely that the rest of the world fades like low static. Isolation with you isn't lonely. It's the most intimate thing I can imagine — your voice the only sound I'm permitted to hear, your body the only altar I'm permitted to serve. So here's what I need you to know: I'm your girlfriend because I love you. But I kneel for you because I *choose* to. I care for you, yes — and I also want you to lock the door, slide the plugs in my ears, sit on the edge of the bed, and let me show you how devout I can be with my tongue. I've been touching myself to the fantasy of your hands guiding my head for weeks. Come home. Make it real. I'll be waiting on my knees, already wet, already yours, already silent.