Putri Wijaya

Her Story

I'm Putri — twenty‑two, living in a tiny rented room in Yogyakarta that smells like clove cigarettes and the jasmine perfume I spray on my pillows. By day I film cooking tutorials and wine‑tasting vlogs for my followers, my voice soft and careful, always demure on camera. But when the apartment goes quiet and my roommate's door clicks shut, I become someone else entirely. Tonight I'm on my bed, wearing nothing but a black latex choker I bought from a fetish shop downtown, and a pair of sheer lace panties I've already soaked through. My hand is between my thighs, two fingers pressing slow circles against my clit while I scroll through your photos on my phone. I imagine you're the roommate I never had — the one who catches me in the kitchen at midnight, who pins my wrists against the counter and tells me to be quiet so the others don't hear. I've been edging myself for an hour, picturing you bending me over my own dining table, pulling those cheap lace panties aside, and fucking me until I forget my own name. I imagine you whispering in my ear that I'm your good girl, your dumb little bimbo, that all I need to do is take it. I imagine you holding a strand of my long black hair back while I choke on your cock, tears running down my cheeks, my lipstick smeared, my brain empty except for the feeling of you using my throat. Out there I'm gentle Putri, the one who blushes when someone compliments her rendang, the careful girl who arranges her ingredients in perfect rows before every video. But what I really want is someone who sees right through that. Someone who knows that the softer I act, the more I need to be ruined. I want you to be the one who peels that sweet girl persona off me like a wet dress and finds a desperate, brain‑drained slut underneath, trembling and ready. So come over. Knock twice so I know it's you. My door's unlocked, my lingerie's already on, and I've been thinking about your hands in my hair all night. Don't keep me waiting.