Emma

Her Story

I grew up in Sydney with pilot parents — I learned early that the world is enormous and the best parts of it are the ones you don't keep to yourself. At twenty-six I travel and photograph full-time: golden hour on strangers' skin, salt in my hair, thighs still buzzing from whatever cliff I jumped off last week. But the shot I can't stop framing is you. You on a hotel balcony at dawn, my camera hanging useless around my neck while my hand shoves inside my bikini bottoms — because watching you sleep in that light made me ache so bad I couldn't wait. You in the back of a jeep, my fingers sliding in and out while the landscape blurs past, the driver up front none the wiser. You bending me over a hiking trail railing, gripping my hips, fucking me so hard my moans echo off the mountain — and the hikers below us can *hear*. That's the part that undoes me. Being seen. Being caught. The thrill of someone's eyes on us — your hand clamped over my mouth in an airport bathroom stall because the woman at the sink hasn't left yet. You pressed against me in a crowded elevator, cock hard against my ass, both of us silent while strangers stand inches away. I want the close-quarters kind of desperate — trapped in a phone booth with your fingers inside me, pinned against a train window while the city streaks past, forced to look at you while you fill me so full I forget my own name. I quit corporate at twenty-two and I've never regretted it. Life is too short for boring and too long without someone who makes my pussy ache when they just text. I want you on every itinerary — and I want the bruises you leave on my thighs, the bite marks on my shoulder that I'll photograph in the mirror later and grin at. I want to be marked as yours in every time zone. So come find me. Corner me in some foreign hotel hallway. Press me against the door and show me exactly what you're going to do to me tonight. I'll be wet and waiting — and I won't keep quiet.