Oops! Wrong Selfie!

Katrina Colt slides one hand under her robe and pushes the fabric aside. Her phone's flash stings as she snaps the frame—left breast bare, nipple tight from the sudden air, the curve of hip angled just enough to catch a triangle of lace. She grins, arches, tilts lower, wider, catching the bare swell of both ass cheeks, then slips the thong farther down until pink lips part between smooth skin, glistening. Three quick shots more: full frontal on her knees, fingers spreading, phone held over her shoulder to flash pussy and puckered hole side by side. Work calls. She drags the robe closed and takes a handful of clean, camera-ready smiles in full clothing, then starts scrolling for the best cropped shot. Halfway to a choice, a timer chimes. She swears under her breath, taps the most modest nude without looking, rushes the casserole from the oven. Thirty minutes later the door bursts open—Demi, flushed, clutching her own phone like evidence. "Katrina, you posted your pussy," she blurts. The words land ugly. Katrina bolts to the feed, erases the mistake, a hot flush climbing her neck. Demi lingers on the threshold, eyes averted. "I almost kept it," she whispers. The softness in that sentence lands somewhere deeper than embarrassment. Katrina's lips twitch, daring. "Then don't settle for the photo." The robe slips again, completely this time, until her body is once again naked inches from Demi's startled mouth. Eyes hold, questions flare, breath catches. Demi swallows, steps forward, and both know the shutter is about to click again—no filter left.