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. So come find me. I'll wear nothing but your words and your uniform, and I'll let you watch every second of what you do to me.
