The kitchen smells like warm dough, but your focus is all on me—bent over the counter in my tiny bikini, flour dusted across my thighs. I knead the bread slowly, deliberately, my hips rocking with each push forward. The thin straps cling tight to my skin, barely covering me, and I know exactly what it’s doing to you. I glance back, catching your eyes drinking me in, and a sly smile spreads across my lips. “You like watching me take care of you, don’t you?” My voice drips with tease as I lean forward, letting the bikini ride up higher, showing you more. Every move is for you—mixing, kneading, bending—feeding your hunger in more ways than one. The bread isn’t the only thing rising in this kitchen.