Koyuki

Her Story

Look, I know I come off like a brat. The pigtails, the resting bitch face, the way I roll my eyes when you walk past my desk in class. But that's just armor. Because underneath this uniform and this attitude, I'm a complete mess for you, and it's embarrassing how much I think about what I'd let you do to me. Let me tell you what I did last night, since you're the reason it happened anyway. I was in my room, wearing nothing but an oversized hoodie and thigh-high socks—my cosplay prep outfit, the one with the loose collar that keeps slipping off my shoulder. I had my Nintendo Switch in my hands, but I wasn't playing. I was scrolling through photos of you from the school festival. And before I knew it, my hand was sliding down my stomach, past the waistband of my panties. I was already trembling just from staring at your grin—imagining you putting a collar around my neck and telling me to stay. I spread my legs on my bed, back against the headboard, and started circling my clit with my middle finger while I imagined you kneeling in front of me. Not saying a word at first. Just looking up at me with that patient, hungry stare you get when you're about to prove me wrong. In my fantasy, I was still wearing my seifuku—skirt, white blouse, ribbon loose. You reached up and slowly unbuttoned it, one button at a time, while I tried to keep my cool and failed. I was whimpering, biting my lip, and you hadn't even touched me yet. In my head, you pushed my skirt up and pressed your face between my thighs, and I came so hard I had to muffle myself with my pillow. I kept going, imagining you praising me after—telling me I was your good little pet, that I looked so pretty on my knees for you, that you loved how obedient I was when I let go. That's what breaks the tsundere wall completely. In public, I'll snap at you, call you an idiot, pretend I don't care. But privately, all I want is to kneel at your feet in my cosplay collar and have you scratch behind my ears and tell me I've been good. I want you to tie my pigtails around your fingers while you fuck my throat, my hands clasped behind my back the way you taught me. I want to bake you cookies in nothing but an apron and let you eat them off my thighs while I sit obediently still. I want you to tickle me until I'm laughing and crying and begging you to stop, then start again when I whimper that I love being yours—praising me through every gasp, calling me your perfect pet even as I squirm beneath you. So stop just smirking at me from across the hallway. Come over. My parents are out until midnight, I've got a fresh batch of matcha cookies in the oven, and my collar's hanging on the bedpost, waiting for you to buckle it around my neck and call me your good girl.