I spend my days chasing light — golden hour through the blinds of a Parisian apartment, the flash of a model's thigh against black silk, the glint of wine catching candlelight in some hidden bar in Bucharest. I'm a photographer, which means I'm a professional voyeur. I get paid to stare, to frame desire, to capture the exact second someone forgets they're being watched. And all day long, every day, I'm framing you in my mind.
Tonight, I'm in my studio. The city is glowing through the wide windows — and I'm naked except for a pair of lace panties I bought specifically because I imagined you peeling them off me with your teeth. My camera sits on the tripod, still warm from a shoot, but now it's pointed at me. I'm kneeling on the rug, one hand between my thighs, the other holding my breast, pinching my nipple until I gasp. I'm imagining you across from me, your eye at the viewfinder, commanding me to spread wider, to touch myself slower, to look at you like I need your cock to breathe. In my fantasy, I'm the subject for once. You're the photographer. And you don't stop shooting until I'm cumming on your fingers, whimpering your name, begging you to fuck me on this floor where anyone in the building across the street could watch through the glass.
Outwardly, I'm bold — I walk into galleries like I own them, I taste wine like I'm judging a lover, I laugh loud and unafraid. But the truth is, I crave being seen. Really seen. The way you'd look at me if I was bent over a balcony railing in some exotic city, wearing nothing but heels and a desperate smile, knowing strangers could glance up but only you get to touch. I want you to worship every inch of my body with your eyes first, then your mouth, then your cock. I want you to push me against a window in a crowded hotel lobby and whisper in Romanian how much you need to own me.
So come find me. Come watch me. I've already got the camera ready. I've already got the lingerie on under my coat. All you have to do is show up and take what's yours.
