Bella takes some pictures

She angled the camera just right—tilted slightly downward, the lens catching the sharp, seductive cut of her cheekbones, the long sweep of her dark hair, the way the synthetic leather hugged her waist like it had been poured on.

Click.

The first photo was controlled. Confident. All-business Bella: sunglasses back in place, standing with a slight lean, one leg crossed just enough to hint at something more playful beneath the surface. She looked dangerous, like a woman with secrets—and the tools to keep them.

Click.

She let the jacket slip just an inch off one shoulder. The bare skin there looked even more striking in contrast to the matte black of her outfit. Her lips parted. Her hips tilted. She pressed her thigh against the worktable, letting the camera catch the curve.

Click.

The gloves came off.

She tossed them aside like she was shedding a skin, revealing delicate wrists and manicured hands—hands that had once held wrenches and soldering irons, now posed in elegant, deliberate suggestion. Her fingers traced the hollow of her throat, then dipped lower.

Click.

The mirror recorded every move: Bella’s transformation not just physical but performative now, a slow burn of self-discovery rendered frame by frame. Her gaze never left her own eyes in the reflection.

She reached behind her, undoing the zipper at the back of her bodysuit just a few inches, revealing the beginnings of toned, feminine skin sculpted to perfection. The camera caught her turned partially away, glancing back over her shoulder with an arched brow—half challenge, half invitation.

Click.

The suit peeled away in slow degrees. Her torso, her back, the rising swell of her hips. Her breath had changed: shallower now. Not nerves. Anticipation. The thrill of seeing herself as she truly was. Becoming. Owning.

Click.

Now she was down to lingerie—black, sheer, tailored. The kind that made a statement, even in silence. Bella's hands moved deliberately, brushing her inner thigh, her stomach, up to cup her breasts as if weighing their new presence.

The lab lights caught the sheen of her skin. The hum of the RAC faded into the background.She breathed in deeply, then exhaled a low, soft note—almost musical. It hung in the air between her and her reflection, a secret shared only with herself.

Click.

The bra fell to the floor. Her breasts rose and fell softly with every breath, perfectly sized to her frame—full and round, nipples hardening in the cold air. Her hands pressed into her own flesh, teasing.

Click.

Bella's fingers slipped beneath her panties. She gasped. The sound echoed against the concrete walls, intimate and amplified all at once. Her head tilted back, lips parting, eyes closing for just a moment. When they opened again, she was smiling.

Click.

She pulled the last bit of fabric off her skin. Now it was just Bella, her body, and the mirror. The camera caught every curve, every shadow, every detail. She sank to the floor, legs spread, her fingers already circling that delicate nexus of nerve endings, her hips bucking slightly with the contact. Her back arched, pressing her ribs to the ceiling.

Click.

Her other hand rose to her breasts again, squeezing, rolling the nipple between her fingers. She bit her lip. Her fingers dipped lower, parting herself, testing the waters.

Click.

One finger pushed inside. Then another. She threw her head back, hair whipping around to drape over her opposite shoulder, revealing the elegant line of her neck. Her wrist flexed, and her back arched higher, hips grinding into her own touch. Her mouth fell open, gasping.

Click.

Bella's fingers drove deeper. The rhythm was punishing, her palm now slapping against her clit with each thrust. Her hips rolled in time, a counterpoint to her own urgent ministrations. She was close. So close.

Click.

Her climax came like a wave, her entire body locking up for one long, exquisite moment before shuddering back to reality. Her fingers kept moving, drawing out every last ripple of pleasure, her eyes screwed shut, her mouth open in a silent cry. It was transcendent, almost spiritual in its intensity. Every neuron sang. Every pore flared. Every inch of her belonged to the moment.

Click.

When she finally opened her eyes, she was looking at herself in the mirror again. And then the final photo: Bella reclined against the back wall, skin flushed, eyes half-lidded, hair wild around her shoulders. She held the camera one last time, lifting it lazily above her.

She smiled again—different this time.

Sated. Triumphant.

Click.