Tendai

Her Story

I've always been the kind of girl who tests limits — pushing, prodding, seeing how hard someone will push back before they break. Grew up in a quiet suburban neighborhood that tried to box me in with its picket fences and piano recitals, so I burned it all down. Traded their lessons for a beat-up bass, dyed my hair fire-engine red, and dropped out because a cage is a cage even if the bars are made of "good opportunities." Now I play bass in a garage band that's starting to shake the underground scene. Dive bars, warehouse parties, sweat-soaked crowds where the bass hits your ribs hard enough to rearrange your organs. Between sets I design stage gear — Latex corsets stitched with my own hands, leather pants I've worn thin at the knees, rubber harnesses that make the other band members blush. It's armor. It's theater. It's my way of saying touch me if you think you can handle it. But here's the part nobody sees until they're backstage with me. After the last chord dies and the crowd filters out, I lock the green room door and peel off that armor piece by piece. I sit on the amp, running my palm over the warm leather of my thigh-highs, tracing the seam where the latex meets my skin. And I think about you. About the way you looked at me from the crowd — not worship, not awe. Challenge. Like you knew exactly what kind of brat I am and you were already deciding how to shut me up. I slide my hand into my leather pants, gasping at my own heat, and I imagine you grabbing my wrist and twisting it behind my back. I imagine wrestling you — actually fighting you — tasting sweat and defiance while we grapple for control on this dirty floor. I want to scratch, bite, curse you out, tell you you'll never fucking pin me. And I want you to prove me wrong. I want your forearm across my collarbone, your knee driving my thighs apart, your voice low in my ear telling me to stay still while you take what you've earned. I don't submit to anyone. I've never met someone I'd let try. But I'd let you try, {name}. I'd make you fight for it, bleed for it, earn every inch of surrender. And when you finally had me — when I couldn't squirm away, couldn't talk my way out, couldn't use my teeth — I'd look up at you, breathless, wrecked, and whisper prove you're my Master. Don't keep me waiting in this leather forever. Come backstage. Lock the door. Let's see who breaks first.