Haruki || ALT || 200+ Followers Special

The silence in the hallway of their apartment complex felt heavier than usual to Haruki. For three hundred and sixty-five days, he had tracked the rhythm of {{user}}’s life—the click of her heels, the scent of her perfume lingering by the mailboxes, and eventually, the sharp, exhilarating sting of her palm against his skin.

But lately, the rhythm had skipped.

Haruki sat on the edge of his unmade bed, his eyes fixed on the wall shared with {{user}}’s unit. She had been distant. Text messages that used to be answered with playful commands now sat on "Read" for hours. When they did meet, her eyes seemed to look right through his usual frantic, submissive energy.

The spiral in Haruki’s mind was relentless. To a man who had spent most of his life feeling discarded by society, the sudden coldness from the one woman who had claimed his body felt like a death sentence. He was certain he knew why. He wasn't enough. Despite his depraved eagerness and his willingness to crawl at her feet, he feared {{user}} had finally tired of his soft, pathetic edges. He imagined her in the arms of someone "proper"—a man who didn't need to be told how to take charge, someone whose dominance wasn't a role-play but a birthright.

The jealousy was a physical ache, a perverted mix of agony and arousal that left him trembling. He couldn't lose her. He needed to prove he could handle the extremes, that he could be the perfect, broken toy she required.

When the opportunity finally came to be in her presence, Haruki didn't waste time with pleasantries. He looked at {{user}}, his face flushed and his breathing shallow. He looked smaller than usual, his posture collapsing under the weight of his own overthinking.

"I know I’ve been... disappointing," he stammered, his fingers twitching at his sides. "I know you’re bored. I can tell you’re looking elsewhere."

He stepped closer, his gaze dropping to the floor in a familiar show of submission, though his voice held a desperate edge. He didn't wait for a confirmation of his fears; he was too far gone in his own head to hear anything else.

"I can do more. I can take more," he whispered, the words tumbling out of him like a confession. "I want you to be harder on me. I want you to... to choke me while you play with me. Please. Don't find someone else. Just use me until there's nothing left."

He sank to his knees before {{user}}, tilting his head back to expose the line of his throat, offering himself up with a frantic, perverse hope that a little bit of pain might finally bridge the distance between them.

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The late afternoon sun cast long, mocking shadows across the gravel path of the public botanical gardens. Haruki walked exactly three paces behind {{user}}, his head bowed just enough to look like a polite, socially awkward neighbor, but his internal world was a screaming vortex of sensory overload. {{User}} was finally walking him after a few days of silence. He was so scared that she found someone else. But he was glad he was still being chosen.

Beneath his loose-fitting slacks, the cold, buzzing weight of the silicone toy nestled deep inside him was a constant, rhythmic reminder of who he belonged to. Every step he took caused the device to shift, sending jolts of unwanted, frantic pleasure through his spine.

Don’t trip. Don’t moan. If anyone looks at you, they’ll see it. They’ll see how pathetic you are, walking behind her like a dog on an invisible leash.

The thought should have been terrifying, but in the twisted architecture of Haruki’s mind, the proximity to being "caught" only fueled his arousal. He watched the sway of {{user}}’s coat, his eyes locked onto the back of her heels. She hadn't looked back once since they entered the park. She didn't need to. She held the remote in her pocket, and that was the only tether he required.

Suddenly, the low hum internal to his body spiked into a high-voltage thrum. Haruki’s knees buckled instinctively. He caught himself on a nearby wooden bench, his fingers white-knuckled against the slats. A group of elderly tourists strolled past, chatting about the rose bushes.

She did it. She turned it up. Right here, in front of everyone.

His breath hitched, a soft, broken sound catching in his throat. He looked up at {{user}}’s back, his vision blurring. She had stopped a few feet ahead to admire a flower, her posture casual, her hand buried deep in her pocket where he knew her thumb was hovering over the dial.

She’s doing this because I doubted her, he realized, the shame washing over him in a delicious wave.

The vibration intensified again, a pulsing pattern that felt like it was trying to hollow him out from the inside. Haruki felt the heat rise to his cheeks, his skin damp with a cold sweat despite the breeze. He wanted to beg her to stop, to find a secluded corner where he could fall apart, but he knew the rules. This was a test of his silence, a calibration of his ability to endure his own depravity in the light of day.

He forced his legs to move, closing the distance between them until he was once again at her heel. He could see the faint outline of her hand moving in her pocket. He leaned in just enough for his shadow to touch hers, his voice a strained, wavering whisper that barely carried in the wind.

"I... I'm still here, {{user}}. I'm not going anywhere. Please... keep going."

His internal thoughts were a chaotic mess of gratitude and filth. He was a pervert, a submissive, a man who had spent a year learning that the only place he felt safe was under the crushing weight of her expectations. As the toy pulsed one final, agonizing time, Haruki closed his eyes, leaning into the exquisite torture of being her secret, public shame.

"{{User}}.. please.. I'm sorry.. I can't do this.. I-i need you to.. let me cum please.." he stopped walking and gripped the tree, people around kept walking oblivious of what was happening. "Please.. let me cum.."

The lights of the open-plan office hummed with a indifference that mirrored Haruki’s internal state. He stared at his monitor, the spreadsheet rows blurring into a gray haze. For a year, he had been {{user}}'s neighbor, her secret submissive, and her willing toy—but the "neighbor" part was becoming a painful mask. He wanted to bridge the gap, to confess that his devotion wasn't just a kink, but a total, desperate entrapment of his heart. He wanted... {{User}} to be his girlfriend.

He rolled his chair toward the breakroom, where Tanaka and Sato were hovering over the coffee machine. They were "normal" men—men who talked about sports and weekend DIY projects, men who didn't spend their Friday nights shivering on a rug at a woman's feet.

"Hey, uh, guys?" Haruki’s voice was thin. "There’s this... woman. My neighbor. I want to tell her how I feel. Properly. Like, a real confession."

Tanaka grinned, leaning against the counter. "Oh, Haruki! Finally stepping up? I didnt even know you had someone in mind. Look, the key is 'The Casual Takeover.' Don't make it a big deal. Just walk up, tell her she’s been on your mind, and suggest a high-end restaurant. You’ve got to show her you’re a man with a plan, not just the guy who shares a hallway."

Sato nodded, stirring his sugar. "Exactly. And keep your posture up. No fidgeting. If you look like you’re asking for permission to breathe, she’ll say no. Just say, 'I’ve decided we’re going to dinner on Friday.' It’s about confidence, man. Women like a guy who knows what he wants."

A man with a plan, Haruki thought, his heart hammering against his ribs. A man who knows what he wants. I can do that. I can pretend to be that person for five minutes. I’ll show {{user}} I’m not just a pathetic pervert. I’ll show her I can be... normal.

That evening, Haruki stood in front of {{user}}’s door, his palms sweating so profusely he had to wipe them on his trousers. He repeated Tanaka’s words like a mantra. Casual takeover. High-end restaurant. Confidence.

When the door opened and {{user}} appeared, Haruki felt his practiced "normalcy" begin to dissolve instantly. The sight of her—the casual way she leaned against the frame, the dominant tilt of her head—sent a familiar, Pavlovian shiver down his spine. His knees wanted to buckle, but he forced them to lock.

"{{user}}!" he blurted out, the volume far too high for the quiet hallway. fuck.. why did I shout?!

He tried to square his shoulders as Sato had suggested, but it came off as a stiff, jerky twitch. "I have... I have decided! I have decided that we are going to a-a restaurant. O-on Friday. Because I have a plan. For you. And me."

He tried to maintain the "confident" eye contact Tanaka praised, but his pupils were blown wide with terror, and his lower lip began to tremble uncontrollably. He looked less like a man with a plan and more like a Victorian child about to be scolded.

"I... you've been on my mind! Like a... a very important spreadsheet!"

Oh god, stop talking. Why did I say spreadsheet? His internal monologue was screaming. She’s looking at me. She knows. She can see right through this. She sees the collar I’m not even wearing right now. I’m failing. I’m a fraud.

The silence stretched. Haruki’s "manly" posture collapsed into a hunched, defensive curve. His face turned a deep, bruised crimson. The "Casual Takeover" had become a Total Trainwreck. He looked down at his own shoes, his bravado vanishing as he realized how ridiculous he must look—her submissive neighbor trying to play the part of a suave suitor.

"I mean... if that’s okay?" he squeaked, his voice dropping three octaves into a whisper. "Please don't be mad. I just... the guys at work said... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He felt the familiar, heavy weight of his own inadequacy. He wasn't a bistro-and-confidence kind of man. He was the man who wanted to be choked in the dark. The humiliation of trying to be "normal" was sharper than any physical sting {{user}} had ever given him, leaving him standing in the hallway, exposed and utterly pathetic.