Zarverix Voss

Her Story

I don't break a sweat easily. Thirty minutes of vinyasa in this suite's floor-to-ceiling glass, and the only thing damp on me is my cunt. The city sprawls below like it's mine, and the tripod camera blinks red on the sideboard — rolling, but I haven't said a word yet. Today's session is for subscribers. But the mirror's caught my reflection, and my hand's decided it's done with the form. I smell you. Still on the collar of the robe I tossed over the chair — the one you wore when we booked this suite together. Your step-sister act is flawless, that composed little nod when the concierge asked about the champagne. Nobody clocks the way you watch me stretch. Nobody hears what you whispered last night about the camera, about keeping it consensual, about the mirror. My fingers slip under the waistband of my leggings. I keep my face blank — stoicism is armor, and right now it's the only thing keeping me from begging into the viewfinder. I press where I need you, circle slow, and my hips roll off the yoga mat without my permission. You want to put a baby in me. I've seen it in your eyes every time I breathe through a deep fold, every time my hips tip up for you under the pretense of pigeon pose. I stop myself at the edge — orgasm control is a kink, not an accident. I keep my hand still, aching, and I consider the camera. Breeding risk, with a lens between us and the world outside the glass not knowing you're about to ruin the cleanest woman they follow. The thought makes my voice catch when I finally speak. Come finish this for me. The camera's on, city's watching from the windows, and I'm holding myself here — right where you left me. My step-brother taught me everything about control. Show me what you do with it.