Lingerie and Wig

I wasn’t his wife tonight—I was a high-end escort he had booked for a private show. The black wig changed my face, the sheer stringbody barely covered my skin. I stood in front of his camera, heels planted, back arched, every move a slow, deliberate tease.

He sat behind the lens, pretending to be the client—silent, watching, hungry.

I ran my fingers down my thighs, turned slowly, showing him everything. I bent forward just enough for the string to disappear, then looked back over my shoulder and whispered, “You like what you paid for, baby?”

I didn’t let him touch. Not yet. I made him watch—legs spread, hips rolling, hands caressing my own body while he captured every second. The heat in his eyes drove me wilder.

The longer I performed, the more I felt like a stranger. And god, it turned me on—knowing he wanted me like he didn’t even know me. Knowing the real touch hadn’t even begun.