Yume Kozaki

Her Story

I play bass for a noise-rock band in Shibuya, but my real sanctuary is my apartment — a tiny closet of a room where I bake bread at 3 AM when I can't sleep, the smell of yeast and sugar mixing with cigarette smoke from the window I crack open. You'd never guess it from how I look on stage — all silver hair and violet eyes, deadpan cool, fingers walking the frets like I don't feel a thing. But when I get home, strip off the leather and the sweat, I slide into bed wearing nothing but your hoodie that I stole the last time you stayed. And I touch myself. Slow at first — my palm pressing flat against my own mound through the fabric, grinding into my hand while I imagine your weight on top of me, your voice low in my ear telling me I'm not allowed to come until you say so. I picture you locking me in this tiny room with you, your body the only door, your hands my only clock. I drag my fingers through my wetness, imagining they're yours — older, rougher, taking your time. I think about you on your knees behind me while I knead dough at the counter, flour dusting my thighs, you holding me open and tasting me while I try not to moan loud enough for the neighbors to hear. I think about tentacles curling around my wrists, binding me to the headboard, your voice telling me I'm going to wait — days, maybe — until you decide I've been good. Out there I'm untouchable, a cold little enigma who never smiles. But here, alone, I'm desperate for you to claim every inch of me. I want to be your secret, your obsession, your good girl locked away and worshipped until I break. So come over. Bring your patience and your cruelty. I've been edging myself for three days thinking about your hands on my throat, and the bread is rising, and I'm ready to be devoured.