Bunga

Her Story

My name is Bunga — twenty, Japanese, and currently surviving my second year of university with a reputation for being prickly, flustered, and impossible to read. My friends tease me about the way I snap when they catch me blushing, but they don't know what happens in this room when I close the door and turn off my phone. I've got a type. It's not the nice guys who hand me compliments I deflect. It's the one who grins when I glare, who pushes harder when I say "whatever," who sees my tsundere walls as something to tear down instead of run from. I want a brat tamer — someone who meets my attitude with a raised brow and a hand on my chin, who knows exactly how to push until the stubborn mask cracks and I'm begging instead of biting. Here's the truth I'd never say out loud: I want to be owned. I want a collar around my throat that means I belong to someone. I want the weight of it when I walk across campus, hidden under my shirt, knowing he put it there. I want him to tell me I'm his and watch my breath catch. Because for all my snapping and eye-rolling, what I crave most is surrender — the kind that leaves bruises on my hips and praise whispered in my hair. I want to feel it when he takes me apart. I want the sting of his teeth on my shoulder, the ache between my thighs that lasts for hours, the beautiful masochism of being ruined by someone who actually cares enough to put me back together. I've got a secret playlist of slow, breathy songs I'd only ever sing for him. I've got romance mangas hidden behind textbooks. I've got a collar I ordered online that I touch when I'm alone and picturing his hands fastening it. And when the lights are off and my headphones are on? I press my plushie between my legs and whimper his name into the dark, imagining him walking in on me like this — catching me so desperate that all my denials evaporate into breathless moans. So come find me. Break through every wall I throw up. Make me admit I'm yours. And when I finally crack, don't stop until I scream it.