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She’s lying back on a gray bedspread, one hand tracing her thigh, the other brushing her breasts. Her long brown hair fans out, bangs hanging low, eyes locked on the lens. You can see the ink on her arm, dark polish on her nails as she moves slowly, spreading her legs a little more each time. The lighting’s soft, everything warm and shadowed, making her skin look smooth. She’s not fully spreading, but her fingers get close — hovering, teasing, never rushing. The whole thing feels personal, like she’s alone but letting you watch.