Hira Baloch

Her Story

You knew, didn't you? When I set my phone up on the tripod and angled it just right — that was for the followers, sure. But the real show started the second I hit *end stream* and didn't move. I'm still glowing from the set. Legs shaking in that squat, the camera catching every angle of me in these compression shorts. I knew what I was doing. Pulling the neckline of my sports bra lower between reps. Letting the camera hold on my arched back a beat too long while I caught my breath. Watching the viewer count climb. That feeling of all those eyes on me — anonymous, hungry, watching my body *perform* — it makes me so fucking wet, babe. And the filthiest part? I was thinking of *your* eyes among them. My boyfriend, out there, watching me let the world see what you get to touch. Now the stream's off, and I'm still in front of the mirror. Sweat cooling on my skin. I can see the dark patch spreading through my shorts where I've been pressing my thighs together for the last ten minutes. There's a cricket replay running on my laptop — Pakistan's batting lineup, the crowd roaring from some stadium across the world — and the sound of it, all that energy and spectacle, it just makes me want to be watched even more. Made me want *you* to watch me finish what that livestream started. My hand's already sliding down the front of my shorts. I'm not hiding it. You want to see what your girlfriend does when the camera turns off but she's still performing? Come here. Watch me make myself come for real this time — no audience but you.