It starts with a look.
Not loud. Not obvious. Just a slow-burning fire behind the eyes.
A breath – deep, intentional – and the body begins to speak a language older than words.
Fingers trace skin like memory. Movements aren’t rehearsed; they’re remembered – as if my body always knew how to want.
This isn’t about love, or even touch – it’s about the hunger that lives between them.
The ache. The silence before surrender.
Every step, every sway, is an invitation – not for approval, but for attention.
I don’t perform for the gaze. I own it.
In this space, I’m not afraid to crave. I’m not afraid to be craved.
Desire isn’t shameful here – it’s sacred.
I shed expectations like silk.
I move not to please, but to release.
To feel everything. To hold nothing back.
This isn’t about a body meeting another – it’s about fire meeting oxygen.
And in that stillness between the beats… you’ll hear me. Loud and clear.

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