Your phone b*zzes on your desk. Work email, you assume. But the preview shows her name, and beneath it, a thumbnail that makes your throat go dry.

You swipe to answer, glancing toward your office door. Half-closed. Good enough.

The screen fills with Alexis. She's framed close, shoulders up, the background some anonymous wall she never bothers to identify. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters except what's in the center of the frame.

Her breasts are enormous, gravity-defying, wrapped in strips of hot pink tape that gleam under harsh light. Plastic. Industrial. The kind that sticks to itself and nothing else, coiled tight in overlapping bands that squeeze her flesh upward and together, creating a shelf of cleavage so deep you could lose your hand in it. The tape catches the light like wet vinyl, every curve highlighted, every strip's edge visible where it digs slightly into soft skin.

Her hair spills over her shoulders, magenta bright as the tape, the color of neon signs and bad decisions. Dark brown roots show at her scalp. Her makeup matches, pink shadow, glossy lips the same shade, slightly parted.

She leans back, balancing her phone somewhere, freeing both hands. She cups the sides of her wrapped breasts and pushes inward, creating pressure, creating depth. The tape creaks, barely audible. Her tongue slides out, pink and wet, and she holds it there, letting a strand of saliva gather, stretch, detach. It falls in slow motion, catching light, landing in the valley she's made for it.

She sways. Left, right, left. The motion makes her breasts shift against their bindings, heavy and contained.

Her hand disappears from frame and returns with a cigarette case. Pink leather, worn soft, the kind that snaps shut with authority. She thumbs it open and extracts a pack of Capri 120s. Long. Slim. Feminine in a way that feels like a threat. She peels the foil, draws one out between two fingers, and swings her hips again while she does it, watching you watch her.

The lighter is gold, slim, expensive. She flicks it open, strikes the wheel, and the flame catches. She inhales, cheeks hollowing, and the tip glows orange.

Then she leans into the camera.

The first exhale h*ts the lens directly, grey-white and thick, obscuring her for a moment before it clears. When it does, she's smiling, smoke still curling from her nostrils. She giggles, a sound like glass bells, and brings the cigarette back to her lips for another drag.

She shifts her weight, and her breasts move with her, the tape holding firm, keeping them presented, offered, impossible to look away from. Her fingers trace the upper curve of one breast, following the tape's edge, then dip into the cleft where her saliva still glistens.

She brings the cigarette close again, not to smoke but to ash. The ember hovers inches from the camera, and she taps the filter once, twice. Grey flecks fall. She maintains eye contact the entire time, her gaze steady through the screen, knowing exactly what she's doing to you, knowing you can't touch yourself here, can't make a sound, can't do anything but stare and s*ffer and want.

Another drag. Another cloud of smoke bl*wn directly at you. Another giggle, softer this time, almost sympathetic. Almost.

She traces her own n*pple through the tape, feeling for it, finding it, pressing until it responds. Her breath catches, visible, audible. She still doesn't speak. She doesn't need to. The message is clear in every shift of her hips, every curl of smoke, every second she holds your eyes and refuses to let you look away.

Your meeting starts in four minutes. She knows your schedule. She always knows

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