The room is quiet except for the soft hum of my computer and the sound of my own breathing. I’m lying across my bed in nothing but a tiny black bodysuit that clings to every curve, my long dark hair spilling over my shoulders.

I pick up my phone and start taking photos — slow, teasing ones. I arch my back, push my ass up, and look over my shoulder with that little smirk I know drives you crazy. Each snap makes me wetter because I know you’re going to see them later and stroke yourself thinking about me.

I can’t stop touching myself while I do it.

My fingers trail down my body, slipping under the thin fabric as I imagine your hands instead. I’m so slick already, aching for attention. I slide two fingers inside myself and let out a soft moan, wishing it was your thick cock stretching me open.

I roll onto my back, legs spread, taking more pictures — close-ups of my lips, my cleavage, the way my fingers glisten with how wet I am. Every photo is a promise. Every angle is an invitation.

I want you to see how badly I need to be fucked tonight. How my body is trembling with desire. How I’m biting my lip and fighting the urge to cum right now just thinking about you watching me.