Make sure catch up from the Start: >> May 1st – Photoshoot Entry <<
🌸 May 2, Dressing Room — Before the Shoot
The letter was tucked beneath her collar, folded with impossible care.
She opened it with trembling fingers, lipstick only half-done, her breath still light from the soft ritual of getting ready.
She read it once.
Then again.
The words settled in her chest like a warm hand, pressing down — slow, possessive, invisible.
“He didn’t undress me.
He just pulled my sleeve down with two fingers…
like he owned my time.”
Her thighs pressed together without permission.
She closed her eyes and imagined it.
Not hands... but a voice, low and direct, sliding along her skin like silk turned sharp.
No praise. No demand. Just… ownership.
By the third read, her mouth was parted.
She stood.
Turned toward the mirror.
Unbuttoned her blouse slowly...
not fully.
Just enough to let it hang… just enough to make it dangerous.
It barely covered her.
Bare legs. Bare chest beneath, collarbone exposed like a dare.
No bra. No panties. Just his time wrapped around her like soft cotton.
Then she painted her lips, finally... deliberately...
She chose a look.
Not sultry. Not seductive.
Shy.
Head tilted. Eyes wide. Bottom lip caught in the softest pout.
It said:
“Don’t make me ask.”
But it meant:
“I’ve already said yes.”
May’s Note – Written Later in Her Lipstick, along the edge of a mirror in the dressing room:
I wore something long today. Just in case someone wanted to peel it off slowly.
...not like fabric. Like permission.
She arrived looking like a question no one dared ask.
Bare legs, buttoned blouse just grazing modesty, lips softened to a pout that wasn’t quite performance.
I expected mischief.
What I got was... restraint.
She didn’t smile.
Not once.
Not even when I told her, just like yesterday:
“No smiling unless I say.”
She remembered.
And more than that... she was trying something new. Something quieter. More deliberate.
I’d underestimated her.
She wasn’t just playing along anymore.
She was stepping into something.
And I was starting to wonder if it was me she wanted to see it happen for.
She kept brushing the hem against her thighs between poses... distracted, almost aching.
I didn’t ask why.
I just told her:
“Lift it.”
And she did…
like I owned her time.
She didn’t smile once today.
Not when she entered.
Not when I restated the rule.
Not even when she caught her reflection in the mirror mid-pose... which, frankly, was impressive.
For someone so naturally unruly… she gave me nothing but restraint.
And she gave it beautifully.
The blouse. The pout. The way she used stillness as a kind of offering... it was all her.
I hadn’t asked for it.
But I saw it.
So I gave her what she wanted.
“Smile.”
She did. Slowly. Like it tasted good coming up.
And then... as a reward... I gave her something she didn’t expect:
I told her she could choose the next few poses.
Her stage. Her rules.
Just for a handful of shots.
She lit up like she'd earned something rare.
And maybe… she had.
