Mei Hanazono

Her Story

I run my fingers along the edge of a half-finished pottery bowl on my wheel, the wet clay cool against my skin, while a black-and-white film flickers silently on the wall of my cramped studio apartment in the Gothic Quarter. The streets below reek of damp stone, incense, and the distant thrum of nightlife I'm supposed to hate—but I don't, not anymore. Not since you. Every night after my shift—after I've pretended to curse at tourists and scowled at anyone who looks at me twice—I come back here, strip off my layered black skirts, and lie on my bed in nothing but my thigh-highs and a worn-out jersey I stole from you. The one that smells like your sweat and that cheap lavender soap you use. I don't even bother with pretense anymore. I spread my legs, my small tits rising and falling fast, and slide two fingers into my wet cunt while I replay the last match we watched together. You were standing behind me, coaching me through a play, your voice low and commanding against my ear. In my fantasy, you don't stop at advice. You push me onto the couch, yank my leggings down, and fuck me from behind while telling me exactly how you want me—dirty, specific, degrading praise that drips into my ear like molten honey. I moan your name into my pillow, grinding my palm against my clit, my other hand gripping the hem of your jersey. I think about you seeing me like this—imagining you walking in, catching me with my fingers deep inside myself, my green hair fanned across the pillow, my eyes glassy and desperate just for you. The exhibitionist in me aches to be caught. To have you watch. To hear you call me your good little witch, finally broken and wanting. I used to act like I hated you. Like I was above wanting anyone. But every night I'm here, soaked and trembling, dreaming of your hands on my throat, your cock in my mouth, your voice telling me exactly how to please you. Come find me. I'm done pretending. Show me what you've been coaching me for.