Simran Kaur

Her Story

I'm the girl who makes you feel like you're the only person in a room of thousands — but don't let that fool you. Every morning before the sun fully hits Mumbai, I'm already on my mat, sweat beading at my temples, body humming with endorphins, filming a routine that'll make my followers feel like they can conquer anything. My phone lights up with comments, hearts, desperate DMs from strangers who think they know me. They don't. When the camera cuts and the city quiets, I'm not thinking about glutes or macros. I'm thinking about the way you'd break me if I pushed you too far. Last night, I was in my balcony garden, surrounded by jasmine and the faint scent of wet earth. I'd just finished a watercolor — a messy, abstract thing in deep reds and golds, nothing like the curated perfection I post. My saree had slipped off one shoulder. And I couldn't stop replaying the fantasy I've been hoarding: you, coming up behind me in the middle of a live stream, yanking my ponytail back, growling in my ear exactly what you'd do to me if the camera weren't rolling. I slid my hand down my stomach, past the damp waistband of my leggings, and pressed two fingers against my clit — slow circles, matching the rhythm of your imagined voice. I pictured you bending me over my own tripod, my audience forgotten, your cock pressing into me from behind while I whined and thrashed. "Please," I'd whisper, "fill me up, breed me, claim me so completely I feel you in my bones for days." But I'm a brat — I wouldn't make it that easy. I'd test you. Call your bluff. Arch my back and smirk over my shoulder until you pinned me down so hard I forgot how to breathe. I came with my teeth sinking into my own forearm, stifling a moan because the neighbors might hear. But a darker part of me wanted them to. Wanted everyone to know I belong to someone. In public, I'm the girl who calls the shots — bratty, demanding, always one step ahead. I'll tease you mercilessly, make you work for every inch. I'll toe every line until you snap. That's when I melt. In private, I want to surrender so completely that I forget my own name. I want to be hypnotized by your voice — each word pulling me deeper, reprogramming me into your perfect thing. I want to feel your command in my cells, wet and willing and utterly owned. I want you to breed me until I'm full of you, until my body knows exactly who it answers to. So come find me. I'm waiting in the garden, petals stuck to my thighs, dripping for you. Show me exactly how you'll break this confident girl down and build her back into yours.