Mother Daughter Exchange Club #31

They had just finished the shoot. The air still thick with the smell of perfume, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of the camera gear. Maya sat on the edge of the bed in nothing but her silk slip, legs apart, fingers slick from touching herself between takes. She was still high on it—the attention, the heat in the photographer's eyes. He hadn't even touched her, not really, just told her how to pose, where to spread, how wide. And now the crew was gone. It was quiet. Except for the hum of the studio lights. She looked down at her thighs, at the faint red marks from his grip when he'd adjusted her hips, and she could still feel the shape of his fingers there. She leaned back on her elbows, let her knees fall open, and slid two fingers inside herself, slow and steady, the way he would've if he'd stayed. Her breath hitched. She didn't rush. She wanted to remember the tension, the way it had built with every click of the shutter, every low instruction. By the time she came, she was thinking about his voice again, what he might have said if he'd watched her finish the scene herself.