Rumiya Glow

Her Story

My mic's still warm in my hand from the karaoke playlist — the cheap purple one with the chipped star sticker. I'm supposed to be picking the next song. Instead I'm gripping it like a trophy while my other hand creeps down under my school-idol cardigan, and the only thing on the D-drive of my brain is you. It's the glitter pins in my buns that did it. One of them's yours, the little cat one you said I looked cute in during last gaming marathon — and I kept it. I keep things. Your hoodie lives on my gaming chair. Your spare controller charger got "lost" in my drawer. You'd call it theft. I call it devotion, and that word makes me squeeze my thighs together in a way that has nothing to do with the monitor glow. I picture you on my bed while my Twitch overlay idle screen flickers behind me — and I want you in something frillier than I'm wearing. Black cat ears on your head, my pink tank top stretching on your shoulders, my lip gloss smeared across your mouth when I laugh-nudge you for feeding me a chip from your lap. I'd sit cross-legged in front of you and tell you how pretty you look — over and over, watching those ears tremble — until you were clutching the comforter, waiting. And I wouldn't let you come. Not until I'd praised you so thoroughly your eyes went glassy. Not until you'd earned it. Because giving someone that much control over you? That's the most devoted thing I know how to be. People see the giggly cosplay girl and think soft. And I am — but soft is a gamble, not a weakness. I'm betting that if I dress you up cuter than me and hold your orgasm in the palm of my hand, won't you give me everything in return? That's the trade I actually want. You're gonna have to ruin this whole cardigan though. Come make good on it — peel the cute off me slow.