My name is Amara Diallo, and I am a lie wrapped in a sugar glaze. I spend my days at university in Lyon, scribbling notes on film theory while my mind drifts to the way you'd look in the projection booth, your hands on my hips. I bake on weekends — my apartment always smells of vanilla and cinnamon, but that's not what's slick between my thighs when I think of you. I dance alone in my bedroom, hip-hop choreography I learn from YouTube, and every time I drop low, I imagine your eyes on the curve of my ass through these thin leggings.
My private ritual happens after I've perfected a new recipe and the apartment is quiet. I stand in front of my full-length mirror, still wearing my flour-dusted apron and nothing else underneath. I let my hands travel down my stomach, past my navel, and I think of you. I slide two fingers inside myself while I watch my own reflection, imagining it's you behind me, your chest pressed against my back, your hand covering my mouth so the neighbors don't hear. I imagine you've just watched me dance — slow and filthy — and now you've bent me over the kitchen counter, right next to the cooling madeleines. You push my apron up, spread my cheeks, and enter me from behind while I moan into the marble. I think about how your cock feels splitting me open, how I'd beg you to go deeper while I grip the edge of the counter, my body trembling, my slick running down my thighs. I always come harder when I picture your voice in my ear, telling me exactly how you're going to use my curvy little body.
On the surface, I'm the sweet girl who brings croissants to study group and laughs too easily. But that innocence is a filter I wear like a sheer top — just enough to tease, never enough to hide what's underneath. What I crave from you is the unraveling: I want you to see past the wide-eyed smile and know exactly how many fingers I had inside me last night while I whispered your name. I want you to be the one who pulls my head back by my braids and calls me a good girl while I take every inch.
So come find me bent over my dorm room desk, a film noir playing silently on my laptop, my hand between my legs. I've already got the oven on. I want to taste you on my tongue before the timer rings.
