The faint scent of drying gloss lingered in the air around her, the clean scent of brand new rubber mats contrasting it with a dull, plastic like smell. Natural light poured through the small high window, catching the edge of her new yoga mat and the gleam of polished concrete. Her activewear sat folded on the corner of the bench, new, fresh, unworn.
Drifting to the small tripod stand across the room, her eyes took in the wonder of this new setup. Dale had generously purchased it and set it up for her phone. It looked humble, almost forgettable, but in her heart soared with pride. He'd done this for her. He'd finished the walls, fixed the lighting, cleared the space. Because she'd asked. Because he believed in her. She wouldn't fail him.
Walking slowly across the mat, every step fell soft and silent as she went. Pausing, she stopped just in front of the stand. A breath in. A breath out. She filled her lungs with confidence.
This was hers now. A new stage for her fame, for her life, for her confidence. Somewhere inside her, something stirred.
She'd spent the past twenty-four hours while Dale worked on the garage buried in tutorials--learning how to record, how to livestream, how to edit. It was amazing how intuitive the tech had become, how streamlined it all was. By last night, she'd recorded herself three times just to practice lighting and sound. She understood the basics now--enough to get started. Enough to stop waiting.
She'd also recorded and produced a private, filthy video just for Dale--one she'd never publish, not even on her boldest day. The footage opened with her sprawled across the bed upstairs, every inch of her on full display, her spine arched and her legs drawn back so far her knees nearly brushed the mattress beside her ears. Her body was flexed open, vulnerable and powerful all at once, the lighting catching the sheen of sweat along her stomach and the sharp line of tension in her thighs.
Her thickest toy was already buried deep, the silicone gleaming with lube as it disappeared into her with practiced, hungry rhythm. Her hand moved fast, merciless, the thrusts almost obscene in their precision. Each wet sound echoed off the walls--slap, squelch, slap--punctuated by sharp, breathless gasps and the occasional raw groan that tore free from her throat before she could catch it.
The camera didn't just catch the motion, it caught the ache, the madness behind her eyes, the full-body surrender of a woman possessed by pleasure. Her abs flexed. Her hips bucked. Her free hand clutched the sheets with knuckles white as she pushed herself harder, deeper, obsessed with capturing that tight, volcanic pressure curling just behind her pelvis.
And then--driven by some unholy mix of muscle memory and sheer desperation--she clawed herself forward, folding in on herself with fluid grace. She knew most people couldn't do it. Even most gymnasts couldn't. But this? This was hers. Not a trick. Not a gimmick. Just a kind of worship she'd perfected--one body, folded around its own hunger, needing no one else to fall apart completely.
It wasn't easy, not every time. Sometimes her neck ached after, sometimes her hips protested the stretch. But that made it better, not worse. It was earned. And fuck, it was worth it. Her lips parted as she moaned again, breath hot and ragged, and without hesitation, she brought her mouth to her own dripping clit.
Her tongue flicked once. Salt. Musk. A tangy slickness that coated her lips with her own arousal--ripe, heady, unmistakably female. She paused, inhaling it, her breath hitching as the taste bloomed across her tongue, earthy and electric all at once. Then she flicked again, slower this time, her tongue flattening as she lapped in a tight, wet circle.
The texture of her clit under her tongue was velvet over fire--fevered, swollen, twitching with need. Her own moan vibrated against herself, low and hungry, as she drank in the taste of her own undoing.
It was intimate in a way nothing else ever was, mouth to cunt, body folded around itself, her pleasure self-sustaining, self-satisfying, utterly consuming. And still, she licked.
The reaction was instant--her entire body shuddered, back arching, toes curling, a half-choked sob escaping her mouth as she licked herself again, slow and deliberate. Her own taste. Her own heat. Her own moan filling the room as she writhed, trembling, and came undone.
She didn't just cum. She detonated--spasming on camera in one long, breathless, soaking climax that left her twitching, gasping, soaked in sweat and arousal. The toy still worked inside her, slower now, dragging out every last quiver as she collapsed against the bed, dizzy with the magnitude of what she'd just done.
And the camera kept rolling.
It wasn't a trick, it was a hard earned skill she had become obsessed with. A product of years of elite gymnastics, of spine flexibility and hip openness most people couldn't imagine. As long as she could remember, she'd been able to do it. Fold in half. Bring her mouth to herself. Taste her own heat. It had started as curiosity. Then it became fascination. Then something more.
She'd been eighteen the first time she realised she enjoyed it. Not just the act, but the sensuality of it--the feminine edge of it. The softness. It wasn't just about sensation. It was the image of herself, exposed and folded, hips flexing into her own mouth. She'd cum, startled by the intensity, and then she'd cried--not from shame, but from the sudden clarity that it had meant something more. That the idea of being touched, seen, claimed by a woman... excited her.
That was how she'd known.
Bisexual wasn't a word she spoke aloud much, but it lived quietly in her. Uncomplicated. Real. Folded into every part of her like a stretch she didn't have to think about--just do. These days, she was more likely to cum watching videos of women on women than anything else--slow, intimate, exploratory. The softness. The heat. The way women touched without hesitation or apology. And now, years later, licking her own clit on camera for Dale wasn't just hot, it was ownership of her body, her past, her pleasure. A quiet, unshakable pride that didn't need an audience, only honesty. It was the kind of truth that whispered rather than shouted, woven into every breath she took, every choice she made. Private, powerful, hers alone.
The camera caught it all, the way her pussy stretched wide around the toy, the perfect O of her entrance fluttering and twitching with every movement; the roll of her hips as she rode each pulse of pleasure deliberately, like she was trying to memorise it. Her groans were raw and unscripted, cracked open by honest hunger. Her fingers never missed a beat--circling, pressing, coaxing herself higher. Her body glistened under the light, slick and flushed, working itself into climax with the single-mindedness of someone who knew exactly how to wreck herself--and wanted to.
She'd sent it to him while he worked in the garage, the message attached: Finish early and you can finish me...
He had. The second he saw the message, he'd tripled his speed, practically sprinting through the final touches. She even heard him from the hallway--"COMING!"--half shout, half promise, echoing from the garage with a thud of urgency. He set down his tools, barely paused to admire the finished space, and came inside without a word. He kissed her hard, hoisted her onto the kitchen counter like she weighed nothing, and gave her exactly what she'd been aching for.
He took her right there. By the time he was done, her legs trembled every time she moved. She couldn't walk straight for an hour, her body stretched, pulsing, deliciously used. She'd collapsed onto the bed after, glowing, breathless, boneless. And when she'd finally caught her breath, she'd smirked up at the ceiling.
Life, she thought, was pretty damn good.
He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a faint grin on his lips as she peeled off her clothes one by one. Naked in the soft light of the garage, she stepped into her new activewear, pulling the fabric up over her hips, smoothing it into place.
"I'll look better in a few months," she murmured, half to herself.
He laughed, shaking his head. "Don't be naked in front of me just after you drained me... you're gonna give me a heart attack, woman!"
