barefoot

It was one of those mornings that tasted of change. The air vibrated with energy and she looked at herself in the mirror – barefoot, in just her underwear. Her hair fell untamed over her shoulders, her skin shimmered in the light. Her gaze glided proudly over the curves of her body. Every line told her story, and today she didn’t want to hide anything.

On the bed lay the outfit she had chosen with care. The translucent blouse clung to her skin like a caress, the buttons were too small to really hold. The skirt, so cheekily short, danced on the edge of the forbidden with every movement. She pulled the blouse over her shoulders, fastened the buttons and let her fingers glide playfully over the smooth skin. As the skirt hugged her hips, she looked at her silhouette. The fabric was so close to her that she felt almost naked – and that was exactly what she loved.

Every breath was a game. The air brushed against her skin and her blouse stretched, her chest clearly visible underneath. How about skipping the skirt? Going out on the street in just your briefs? The thought brought a smile to her lips.

In the studio, she carelessly dropped her shoes, the cold floor beneath her feet sending a tingle through her body. She stepped into the middle of the room, stood in front of the camera and began to move – not for a shot, but just for herself. Her hands wandered over her body, pulling the blouse out of the waistband, opening buttons until the fabric gave way and revealed more skin. The skirt slipped higher, the blouse fell off her shoulders. Her fingers slid over her stomach, her hips, lower, until she paused, felt the moment and finally pushed the panties aside.

It was not a performance, not a game. It was pure devotion, to herself, to her lust, to the freedom she felt in every movement. The warmth spread inside her until she sank exhausted onto the soft carpet. Her breathing was rapid, her skin glowing, her energy still pulsing in every fiber of her body.