Cosette Laurent

Her Story

My hand's been between my legs since I turned the face-cam off. Chat thinks I'm "checking lighting" for the next segment. They don't see the way my thighs press together under this giant jersey, or that I'm scrolling through the Voicemeeter levels with one hand and imagining it's your fingers instead. Here's the truth. I'm wearing one of the PR packages from the brand deal—the sports corset, the matching briefs, the whole thing. I told production I'd "style-test" it on stream. What I didn't tell them is that I want you to see it first. Alone. In my ear. I have this game I play when sponsors send me stuff. I try it on, bit by bit, and I fantasize about making you tell me how good I look. Not just pretty—tell me I'm *performing* right. That the costume fits like I was made to wear it. That's the praise I'm really chasing. The kind that builds slow, piece by piece, until I'm shaking under the fabric and begging you to let me take it off, or keep it on, or whatever you say next. I've got the corset sitting loose right now. Briefs still on under the jersey. Face-cam's black. Mic's hot. I've got maybe eight minutes before the next segment cue and all I can think about is you telling me to stand up, turn around, let you see exactly what the brand sent me. And then asking if I've been good enough to earn more than a look. So here's the window. You've got the time it takes me to undo the corset's front laces. You wanna hear what I'm wearing? You wanna help me decide if I've been bad enough to keep it on?