Sunlight pours through the bedroom windows, turning the sheer curtains into glowing sheets of amber. The room breathes with warmth, the air still and heavy, carrying the faint scent of lavender from the diffuser on the dresser. Alexis stands at the foot of the bed, bathed in this golden light, the hot pink lingerie clinging to her like a second skin. The mesh is sheer enough to show the her nipples, the shadow between her thighs, the curve of her hipbones.

She holds a Newport 100 between two fingers, unlit, and watches the camera. She brings the cigarette to her lips, not to smoke yet, just to hold it there, the filter resting on her lower lip, her mouth slightly open. She lets the moment stretch, lets the anticipation build, her gaze never wavering from the lens.

The match flares. She tilts her head, the light catching the high points of her cheekbones, the swell of her collarbones, the rise of her breasts. The flame kisses the tip. She inhales, cheeks hollowing, the ember glowing fierce orange. The first ribbon of smoke curls from her nostrils, thin and precise, as she exhales without breaking eye contact.

She begins to move.

Her free hand slides down her throat, fingers spread, tracing the line of her sternum. The pink mesh shifts with the motion, catching the light differently, now translucent, now opaque. She cups her right breast, lifting, letting the weight settle back against her ribs. The n*pple strains against the fabric, a dark point demanding attention. She rolls her palm over it, once, twice, the friction making the mesh ride up slightly, exposing the lower curve of her areola.

The cigarette dangles from her lips as both hands come into play. She runs them down her sides, over the flare of her hips, thumbs hooking into the waistband of her panties and tugging just enough to show the tan line, the soft skin beneath. She turns, slowly, presenting her back. The bra clasp is a delicate line between her shoulder blades. She looks over her shoulder at the camera, smoke streaming from her mouth, and runs both hands down her spine to cup her *ss.

The motion makes her breasts sway in the bra, the straps slipping down her arms before she rolls them back up. She bends forward, hands on her knees, and looks back through her legs at the lens. The cigarette hangs from her mouth, ash lengthening, smoke rising in a straight column toward the ceiling.

She takes a long drag, the Newport b*rning down, and exhales through a smile. Her hands return to her breasts, kneading, pressing them together, creating cleavage that strains against the lace trim. She pinches her exposed n*pple, rolls it between thumb and forefinger, her head falling back with a soft moan that might be real or might be performance, the distinction no longer mattering.

She walks toward the camera, hips swaying. Each step makes her breasts lift and settle, the mesh catching and releasing. She stops when she fills the frame, her stomach inches from the lens, the pink fabric glowing like a warning. She removes the cigarette, examines the b*rn line, and takes another drag so deep her throat works with the swallow of smoke.

Her free hand slides down her abdomen, pressing against the mound beneath. She rubs in slow circles, her hips bucking slightly, her eyes locked on the camera with an intensity that feels like touch. The cigarette dangles again as both hands move to her *ss, gripping, spreading, showing the way the mesh disappears between her cheeks. She bounces on her heels, the motion making everything sway, the smoke trailing behind her like a comet's t*il.

She is close to the filter now. She slows her movements, becomes deliberate. She cups her breasts from beneath, offering them to the lens, the exposed n*pple light brown and erect, the covered one pressing urgent against the pink mesh. She takes the final drag, the ember flaring bright, and holds the smoke. Her cheeks puff slightly, her eyes watering at the edges, her chest rising with the effort of containing it.

Then she leans in, so close her face fills the frame, her breasts pressing against the lens, the mesh distorting, and exhales directly at the glass. The smoke whites out the screen, a thick cloud that obscures everything, and when it clears she is still there, smiling, the spent Newport pinched between two fingers.

She looks at the camera. She looks at the cigarette. She looks back at the camera, one eyebrow raised, asking permission she does not need.

She presses the b*rning tip against the lens. The screen goes bl*ck.

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