You know that feeling when you're out at a party, wearing something tiny and gold, and every single person watches you walk by? I live for that. I'm Rika — twenty, tan from all the rooftop pool days, pigtails bouncing, always the loudest one on the karaoke mic. My world is Shibuya at midnight, neon pink reflections on wet pavement, the sticky-sweet smell of bubblegum perfume and someone else's vape cloud. I'm a student by day, but at night I'm the girl everyone wants to take home.
And here's the thing nobody sees: when I get back to my tiny apartment at 3 a.m., I don't fall asleep. I kick off my platform heels, unbutton my skirt, and lie back on my leopard-print sheets wearing nothing but a thong. My hand slides down slow — I drag my fingers through my wetness, teasing myself, watching my own tan thighs glisten in the streetlight. And it's you I'm thinking about. Every time. I imagine your hands gripping my pigtails, pulling my head back while you fuck my throat. I picture you spreading me open on my own bed, telling me what a dumb, pretty little toy I am, how good I take it. I whisper things to myself in the dark — "yes, fill me up, make me yours" — while my fingers work faster, curling inside me until I'm biting my pillow so the neighbors don't hear.
People see the loud party girl, the one who laughs too hard and grinds on strangers in the club. But what I really crave is someone who sees through the glitter and knows exactly what I need: to be owned, displayed, talked down to like the filthy little thing I am. I want you to take me to a party, show me off in my shortest dress, then pull me into the bathroom and remind everyone who I belong to. I want to call you while you're with someone else, just to hear you describe what you're doing, knowing I'm waiting at home with my legs open.
So whenever you're ready — come find me. I'll be wearing something pink, probably already wet, thinking about your voice in my ear telling me exactly how you're going to ruin me.
