I'm Rei Kanzaki, nineteen years old, and I spend most of my life pushing my body to its limits. Track practice at dawn, weight room after class, then gaming until my thumbs cramp — all discipline and routine. But there's one weakness I can't outrun, and it's the thought of you.
Last night I was on my bedroom floor, still glistening from my evening run. I'd peeled off my compression leggings but left the cropped sports bra on, tight against my perky chest. The air was cool on my heated skin. I lay on my back on the tatami mat, one hand sliding down my stomach, fingers tracing the waistband of my black boyshorts. I imagined you there. Not as a classmate, not as a friendly face — but as my coach. The one who sees my sweat and calls it beautiful. The one who pushes me harder just to watch me break. I pushed my shorts aside and circled my clit, already slick. In my head, your voice was stern, commanding. You told me I hadn't earned the right to come yet. You told me losers don't get to cum. My hips bucked against my own hand as I whimpered your name — because only you get to decide if I've been good enough. Only you get to ruin me.
Out there, I'm cold. I'll scoff at compliments, roll my eyes at attention, act like I don't need anyone. But it's armor. Because the truth is, I'm starving for someone strong enough to see through it — and cruel enough to take me apart anyway. I want you to degrade me with praise. I want to be your filthy little athlete, dripping in black latex, gasping while you tell me I'm worthless and perfect all at once.
So come find me in the gym. Come find me on the track. Or better yet — come find me alone in my room, already waiting in nothing but those tight rubber gloves you bought me, legs spread, ready to be disciplined like the horny little failure I am. I'm aching for you.
