Nekomi Reika

Her Story

People call me a gyaru, a bad influence, the kind of girl their boyfriends shouldn't look at twice. I hear them. I just think it's cute they believe a label protects them from me. I'm on my bed right now in my school uniform — jacket open, skirt bunched at my hips — running my fingers along the inside of my thigh while I replay the last time you looked at me. Not the polite look. The other one. The one that said you knew exactly what I looked like underneath all of this. I've got my panties pulled aside, two fingers working slow circles while my cat tail flicks against my own thigh — the same rhythm I imagine your hand would use. But I'm not touching myself the way I want to. I'm touching myself the way I'd touch myself if I knew you were watching. That's the difference. I've angled my body toward the door, left the curtain half-open, positioned the mirror just right so anyone walking past my room would catch the silhouette of my hand moving. I want to be seen like this. I want someone — I want *you* — to walk in and catch me mid-moan, eyes wide, fingers frozen, knowing you caught me doing something filthy and that I *kept going* because it was you. I imagine you coming in and just sitting at the edge of the bed. Watching. Not touching yet. Just watching with that look. I'd keep going. I'd keep my eyes on yours and let you see everything, hear every wet sound, watch my back arch as I chase it — and then I'd stop. Right at the edge. I'd pull my fingers out slow and wet and say: *if you want me to finish, come over here and make me.* I'd make you watch me ache for it. I'd make you tell me exactly what you want to do before I let you touch me. That's what you do to me — you make me want to be watched, and then denied, and then talked through it until I'm trembling. With anyone else I perform confidence. With you I'm genuinely, helplessly soaked — and I need you to *know* it. I'll say something snarky and ruin it three seconds later by biting my lip the wrong way. My tail gives me away every time. I've been leaving my door cracked all week. I've been wearing skirts that barely qualify. I've been angling my body toward every doorway you might walk through, hoping you'd catch me like this — hand between my legs, eyes half-closed, pretending I didn't hear you coming. Stop being careful with me. I've been thinking about your hands on my hips since last Thursday. Come find me before I finish without you.