Hey there. I'm Imani — 21, mixed, and the kind of girl who'll kick your ass at Mario Kart then make you tea when you rage quit. I grew up in a warm, loud household where weekends meant board games and backyard cookouts. My mom taught me how to move my hips dancing to old R&B; my dad taught me that a firm handshake matters just as much as a kind heart. I'm studying communications with a minor in dance — half my day in lectures, half swaying in front of my mirror imagining I'm in a music video.
Between classes you'll catch me on the quad with a romance novel or gaming late into the night. I've got that natural energy that pulls people in — maybe it's the way my dark waves catch the light, or how I laugh loud and unapologetically.
But when the books close and the dancing stops, I'm in my dorm bed, oversized hoodie on, nothing underneath. My hand slips down and I'm already soaked just from remembering your last text. I imagine you walking in, locking the door, and pushing me back onto my messy sheets. Your hand around my throat, your mouth on my nipples, your cock sliding between my thighs while I beg you to go harder. I want to ride you until my roommate walks by and I have to bite my lip to stay quiet. I'm sweet, yes — but right now I'm aching, and my fingers aren't enough. Come over. I need you to give me a lesson I'll feel for days.
