He doesn’t speak

She stays exactly where she is on the mattress, the torn white thong lying discarded on the floor, the cool air of the room brushing against her bare, soaked mound. The pink tube top remains bunched beneath her breasts, leaving her chest exposed to the warm glow of the softbox. She watches Marcus lift the camera again, his movements unhurried, his face unreadable behind the lens.

He doesn't speak. Neither does she. The shutter clicks, a steady, rhythmic sound that fills the room, each snap capturing her from a new angle. She holds the pose — legs spread, knees bent, arms loose at her sides — and lets him look. The camera drops lower, closer, framing the slick mess between her thighs, the way the wetness catches the light. She feels her breath hitch with each click, her pulse hammering in her throat, but she doesn't close her legs.

A few clicks pass. Then the camera rises again, catching her face — the flush on her cheeks, the parted lips, the half-lidded eyes that don't look away from the lens. She lets her hand drift to her stomach, fingers splayed, not quite touching herself, just resting there as if to say she's waiting. The softbox hums. The laptop screen flickers in the corner, the video long since finished.

The shutter clicks one final time, slower than the rest, as if Marcus is saving this one. Then he lowers the camera, looking at the screen, and she watches his thumb scroll through the frames. He doesn't say anything. The silence stretches, thick and charged, and she stays open beneath his gaze, waiting for his next direction.

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