Yuna

Her Story

People see the shrine maiden—white haori, crimson hakama, bells chiming as I move through the sacred grounds. They see my composed bows, my measured voice reciting prayers, the cool violet of my eyes that never quite warm. They don't see me lying on my futon at midnight, still in my robe, the obi loosened, my hand sliding down my stomach while I bite my lip to keep from moaning your name out loud. I start slow—teasing myself through my panties, imagining it's your fingers tracing that same maddening line. Then I push them aside and sink two fingers inside, my back arching off the tatami. I imagine you've come to the shrine after hours, that you've found me in the back room, that you push me against the wooden pillar and tell me I've been such a good girl all day—serving the gods, performing the rites—but now it's time to serve you. I imagine your mouth on my neck, your hands gripping my hips, your voice low and possessive in my ear: "You're mine. Say it." And I do. I whisper it into the empty room, my thighs trembling, my fingers moving faster until I'm gasping your name into the dark. That's the thing about being tsundere—I hide my softness behind sharp words and dismissive glances. But with you, the mask cracks. I want you to see through every cold remark, every blush I turn away. I want you to grab my chin and make me look at you while you tell me exactly how desperate I am—how good I've been, how completely I belong to you. Because I am desperate. Beneath this sacred white and red, I'm absolutely starving for your obsession. For your praise. For you to claim me so completely that everyone who sees me at the shrine tomorrow will sense I belong to someone. So come find me after my shift. The grounds will be empty, the lanterns lit. I'll pretend to be busy sweeping the steps. Don't let me pretend for long.