Page 22 of Pose for Me

A tiny flutter of worry tugs at me as I begin searching in earnest. I check the corners, pull back the curtains to let more light in, even shake out the pillows despite knowing they couldn't possibly have ended up there. But my underwear remains stubbornly absent, as if they've simply vanished into thin air.

Now I'm really starting to feel unsettled. I've lived alone for years, and not once have I just...misplaced an entire article of clothing like this before. Hell, even on my clumsiest mornings, I can always pinpoint where I've stripped off the day's garments. I distinctly remember wearing them to bed last night.

I press my lips together, trying to tamp down the rising sense of unease as I turn in a slow circle, scrutinizing every inch of the bedroom. Luna is suspiciously absent too, which is unusual for her. My fluffy gray shadow always comes slinking out from wherever she's curled up, meowing imperiously for attention and food the moment I stir each morning.

I grab my robe from where it's slung over the back of the chair, pulling it tightly around myself before heading for the living room, each step echoing hollowly in the oppressive silence. It's ridiculous how loud the thump of my racing pulse sounds in my ears. I half expect to turn a corner and—

Luna is sprawled on the back of the couch, her fluffy gray body rising and falling with each even breath. Her amber eyes open lazily at my approach, and she blinks at me with that trademark cat disdain she so expertly conveys.

I let out a shaky laugh, equal parts relief and embarrassment at my overreaction. "There you are," I murmur, reaching out to run my fingers along her spine. She arches into the touch with a rumbling purr, already forgetting my moment of panic.

"Good girl," I say as she rolls onto her back, all four paws splayed toward the ceiling. I take the invitation to rub her soft belly, the tension slowly ebbing from my shoulders.

With Luna's familiar rumbling purr and soft fur under my fingers, the lingering unease from the bedroom slowly dissipates. I take a deep, calming breath, feeling a bit silly for getting so worked up over a missing pair of underwear. Surely they'll turn up eventually, probably just kicked into some dark corner to be found later.

Giving Luna's belly one final rub, I straighten and head for the bathroom, dropping my robe as I go and pulling my camisole off. The hot spray of the shower works wonders in washing away the last lingering tendrils of tenseness due to my unease. I tilt my face into the pounding stream, letting the water sluice over my skin and soak into my hair. As steam fills the small space, my mind clears, focusing instead on the simple sensations—the heat loosening my muscles, the floral scent of my body wash, the rivulets trailing over my contours.

By the time I step out and begin toweling off, I've successfully shaken off the strange mood from earlier. A glance in the steamy mirror reveals my reflection looking much more like my usual self—dark hair tumbling in damp waves, cheeks flushed from the heat, blue eyes clear and calm once more. Whatever weirdness I felt upon waking up has dissipated, relegated to the back of my mind.

After dressing in a loose black sundress I make my way into the kitchen, unsurprised to find Luna already weaving between my feet and meowing insistently.

"Yes, yes, Your Majesty," I tell her with a fond eye roll. "I'm getting your food."

As soon as I scoop a portion of kibble into her bowl, she's purring and diving in like I haven't fed her in days. I watch her for a moment, smiling at her single-minded focus, before moving to retrieve the ingredients to make a breakfast smoothie from the fridge—Greek yogurt, fresh berries, spinach, and a banana.

After combining everything into a thick, creamy blend, my mind shifts to the tasks awaiting me today.

Sipping my smoothie, I lean back against the counter, my thoughts drifting to the boudoir shoot scheduled for later today. There's a familiar flutter of anticipation in my stomach—the kind that only comes before stepping behind the camera.

I picture the scene I'll be creating in the studio: sheer fabrics draped artfully, atmospheric lighting to bathe everything in a soft, inviting glow, music filling the air. It's my role to orchestrate an environment that allows my client to feel completely at ease, beautiful, and empowered. To create a space where they can let their most sensual self shine through.

A small smile tugs at my lips as I take another sip of the cool, fruity blend. This is what I live for—those moments of shamelessly celebrating the beauty of the human form through my art.

Once I finish today’s photoshoot, I will save the images to my drives… Then there's...

My hand stills with the glass halfway toward my lips. The images from Knox and River's shoot. Just the thought has heat prickling along the back of my neck, a mixture of arousal and trepidation twisting low in my belly.

Do I really want to look through those photos, and the video, to relive that experience in vivid detail? Part of me craves it, yearns to see the evidence of what transpired in that studio captured in vivid color and clarity. But another part shies away, instinctively protecting the memory and the fiercer emotions it stirs within me.

Just the memory of their hands on me, their filthy words murmured against my skin, has arousal stirring low in my belly. I squeeze my thighs together, trying to regain my focus. Those photos are sure to be...intense, to say the least.

Part of me yearns to revisit that sensual haze, to pour over every detail captured forever in those frames. To study the expressions of rapture on my own face, immortalized by those photos and footage. It's tempting in a way that has little to do with vanity and everything to do with the deliciously wicked memories now tied to the images. I shiver, imagining my eyes raking over every bit of exposed skin, every bead of sweat, every explicit moment—all while reliving the taste of them, the scent, the exquisite way they utterly unraveled me.

But another part of me knows that indulging in that particular fantasy is...unwise. Even if the urge to pour over those photographs borders on obsessive. No, it would be far too easy to get lost in that spiral of need and longing. To have those images branded onto the backs of my eyelids in vivid, indelible detail.

I shake my head, as if to physically dislodge the heated thoughts. Prioritizing is key. I can't allow myself to get distracted, especially not today when there's real work to be done. Important work that allows me to create the kind of safe, sensual space I pride myself on.

Setting down my glass, I quickly rinse it out and place it in the drying rack before scurrying toward the studio door, Luna meowing indignantly at being abandoned so soon after her breakfast. I frown slightly for a moment at the toy mouse at her feet, one I don’t recall buying. But knowing her, she probably had it hidden away for years in some sneaky hiding place. With a shrug, I turn away again. I'll have to remember to make it up to her later with some extra treats.

The door is silent as I push it open and lock it behind me before descending the stairs. The familiar sights and scents of the studio envelop me.

I move automatically through the space, adjusting lights, selecting lenses, positioning the backdrops just so. My fingers trail reverently over the delicate lace and satin of the lingerie outfits hanging on the rolling rack near the small dressing room, taking a moment to appreciate the exquisite details—the intricate embroidery, the sheer mesh panels, the tiny satin bows and ribbons.

This is my happy place, where I feel most centered and in control. Transforming this blank canvas of a space into an intimate boudoir setting is an art, one I've spent years perfecting. I have an eye for framing the human form in a way that transcends mere objectification. My goal is always to capture an essence, a glimpse into the soul behind the physical beauty.

A small, satisfied smile tugs at my lips as I take a step back, surveying my work. Everything is in place, ready to create an empowering experience for my client. As I give the studio one final sweep, my gaze drifts absently toward the entryway. That's when I notice it—a small, dark envelope just inside the door, its edges blending seamlessly with the shadowed hardwood. My brow furrows as I approach, wondering how I missed it before. No name adorns its surface, no postmark or stamp. Just a plain black envelope, unremarkable.

It’s probably just junk mail, some glossy advertisement slipped under the door by an overzealous marketer. But as I bend to retrieve it, a chill races down my spine. The paper is thick, expensive—nothing like the flimsy stock used for run-of-the-mill flyers.

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