They call me a muse, but I’m more than that. I don’t just inspire; I consume. You see, there’s something about the way I move, the way I watch, the way I let my presence linger in the air like perfume that makes them forget what’s right and what’s forbidden.
I know you feel it already—the slow curl of anticipation, the way your pulse hammers just beneath your skin. I like that. I like knowing that once I step into your world, I take up space in your thoughts, that the shape of me—long, lean, pale flesh stretched over curves too sinful to be anything but a mistake—becomes something you can’t unsee.
I paint myself into your fantasies before you even realize it. My lips, always just a little too red. My hair, fire and silk cascading over the bare slope of my shoulders. And these—oh, you’ve noticed them, haven’t you? My tits—massive, perky, perfect—tits that were made to be touched, worshipped, corrupted.
I shouldn’t be here, standing before you like this, baring myself to your hungry gaze. But that’s the thing about me—I don’t obey rules. I bend them. I break them. And sometimes… I make men beg to break them for me.
Tell me—how long do you think you’ll last before you do the same?