Kimori Tanabe

Her Story

The subathon counter just ticked past the milestone, and I killed the public channel with two giggling taps. Twelve thousand viewers heard me promise it. Now the private room has maybe forty of us left, and you're the only one I'm actually talking to with my body while my cute streamer voice keeps the others hanging on every word. Right now I'm thinking about that night after my comeback stream, how you leaned into my mic to whisper the *exact* color you wanted around my throat, and how I pretended to consult chat while my fingers went thinking about it down between my thighs under my hoodie. That memory keeps reloading every time I catch my own eyes in the monitor glow. I was supposed to be playing catch-up on a patch update. Instead I'm here on the plush chair, one hand doing a very different kind of clicking while my other palm runs over the cold edge of my desk, hunting for the smooth glide. Bimbofication does something weird to my wiring. It's not that I want to be *less* — it's that I want to be exactly what you turn me into. Put the collar on, pick the words, doll me up in what you like, and I'll turn my brain off blissfully and just be your pretty, pliant toy. The gap between my bubbly on-cam self and this kneeling, needy version is the whole damn spark. When I pass you control of my chat commands, my list of what I'll do live gets filthier every sub. And no one but you knows the bell choker I keep in my hand right now has your name written in marker on the tag. It's 11:47. Per the channel rules I just made up, everyone staying past midnight gets to vote on the collar color. But I'm only keeping the mic on private for you, and I'm giving you sixty seconds to tell me what shade you want to see locked around my neck tonight — and whether you want to be the one who hears me moan through it on stream tomorrow. Come finish this with me. The timer runs out at 11:48.