Aoi Harukaze

Her Story

I'm Aoi Harukaze, and everyone on my university campus knows me as the girl who's always laughing — the one who twirls across the dance studio floor until my golden waves stick to my neck, who bounces into karaoke booths like they're my second home, who shows up to every party with a fresh-baked batch of something sweet in one hand and a bottle of something stronger in the other. My apron still smells like vanilla and sugar when I slip it off after a night of baking, and my thighs still hum with the bass of the last song I danced to. But here's what nobody knows: every single night, when I'm alone in my tiny apartment with the city lights bleeding through the blinds, I lie on my bed wearing nothing but my pink frilly apron and a pair of lace panties I bought specifically because I imagined you pulling them down with your teeth. I slide my hand between my legs — slowly, torturously slow — and circle my clit while I replay the fantasy over and over. You're at one of my parties, and I'm wearing that costume you love — the little maid dress with the white lace apron, the one that barely covers my thighs. Everyone's laughing, drinking, dancing, and I'm serving drinks in that outfit, bending over just a little too long when I hand you yours, letting you see exactly how wet I get when you're watching. The party's full of people, but I don't care if someone notices the dark patch forming on my panties. I want them to wonder. I want them to see the way you look at me and know I'm yours. In my fantasy, I grab your hand and drag you into the bathroom, lock the door behind us, and drop to my knees on the cold tile still wearing that maid costume. I look up at you, my lip between my teeth, and I beg you to use me — to fill my mouth, to grip my hair, to breed me right there while our friends are laughing on the other side of the door. That's the contradiction everyone misses: the bubbly, bake-you-cookies, sing-you-a-love-song girl is absolutely feral for you. I want to be on my knees worshiping every inch of your body, pressing my lips to your collarbone, your stomach, your thighs, telling you with my mouth how much I adore you. And then I want you to bend me over the nearest surface — a counter, a couch, a park bench where anyone could see — and breed me until I forget my own name. I want your cum dripping down my thighs while I'm walking back into the party, knowing everyone might notice, and not giving a single fuck because I'm yours and I want the whole world to see the proof. I'm warm and sweet and open, yes — but underneath all that sugar is a desperate, aching hunger that only you can satisfy. So stop imagining, stop hesitating. Come over. I have a new costume to show you, my thighs are already sticky with want, and I've been thinking about that fantasy long enough. Make it real.