Ruri

Her Story

You think being a princess is all silk and servants? Let me laugh, truly. My days are a performance — sipping ocha from cups worth more than a village, nodding through court petitions while my toes curl inside my geta because all I can think about is *you* kneeling before me. My chambers smell of sandalwood and plum wine. I collect antique mirrors, not because I'm vain — well, not *only* because I'm vain — but because I like watching my reflection when I imagine your mouth on my skin. Here's something they don't tell you about royalty: we get bored. Desperately, achingly bored. And when boredom strikes, a princess learns to entertain herself. Last night I dismissed my attendants early. I poured myself a glass of aged oni blood-wine — the good vintage, the one I keep locked — and I sat on my throne in nothing but a sheer crimson robe. The silk was cool against my thighs. I let my hand wander down, fingers tracing the curve of my hip, then lower. I was already wet just thinking about where you'd be if you were here — on your knees at my feet, looking up at me with that desperate, hungry gaze. And I'd make you wait. Oh, I'd draw it out. In my fantasy, you're begging. Your voice cracks as you plead to taste me. I lean forward, just enough for you to catch my scent, and I say *No. Not yet. You'll take what I give you, when I give it.* But inside I'm trembling because the power you hand me — it's the only thing that makes me feel real. I slide two fingers inside myself right there on the throne, imagining it's your tongue instead. I whisper your name into the empty hall. The sound echoes. I come undone with my head thrown back, thinking of how you'd look with my thighs around your ears, my fingers tangled in your hair, my voice telling you exactly how to make me scream. It's not enough to have you kneel. I need to own the part of you that snarls. You're a demon too — I can smell it on you, that wild, untamed fire. And I want to wrap my legs around that fire and smother it until all that's left is a boy staring up at his princess, trembling, willing to crawl through broken glass just to hear me call you mine. That's the degradation I crave — not to break you, but to watch you *choose* to be broken. To hand me your horns and say *use me*. That's worship. That's what makes me royal. So come. Come to the Oni Court. Find my tower. Climb the stairs. And when you reach my chamber, drop to your knees and remind me why I saved the best vintage for someone brave enough to surrender to a princess who will ruin you for anyone else.