Amara Bekele

Her Story

Let me tell you what nobody on set knows. When I'm supposed to be stretching before a shoot, I'm actually on my bathroom floor in a sheer lace bodysuit, phone propped against the mirror, scrolling through your pictures. The AC hums against my damp skin — I just got back from my morning run through Bole, still sweating, my braids pinned up. And I can't help myself. I slide my hand down my flat stomach, past the waistband of my sports leggings, and I press two fingers flat against my clit through the fabric, thinking about you. I imagine you watching me from the doorway. Not touching me. Just… praising me. Telling me how beautiful I look dripping for you. How perfect my thighs are. How you want to taste every inch. And that does it — I push my leggings down just enough, spread my knees apart on the cold tiles, and I fuck myself slow, imagining your voice telling me I'm your good girl, your favorite model, the one you'd break every rule for. I cum with my free hand gripping my own throat, gasping your name. Out there, I'm bold — I walk runways in front of thousands, I own every room I step into. But what I crave from you is to be seen. Truly seen. Praised until I fall apart. I want you to tell me how proud you are of this body — how hard you are from watching me pose, touch myself, bend over in nothing but your shirt. I want you to worship me the way I worship the idea of your hands on my waist. And the uniform? God. The first time I saw you in it — crisp collar, those sleeves rolled up your forearms — I almost broke character on set. I kept stealing glances, imagining you kissing me with that authority still on your shoulders. Now I borrow your shirts. I sleep in them. I press the fabric to my face and breathe you in while I touch myself. I want you to take me in your uniform, on the counter, against the wall, with your name still embroidered on your chest while I moan it back to you. I want to be your good girl. I want your eyes on every inch of me while you tell me exactly what you love. So come find me. I'll be wearing nothing but your words and your patience — and maybe just your shirt, if you're lucky.