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The flicker of hotel neon casts fractured rainbows across my bare thighs as I lean back against the marble countertop, my phone trembling slightly in my grip. Each tap against the screen echoes the pulse between my legs—a heavy, insistent rhythm that began the moment I slid these damp lace panties against my stiffing cock. "Backstage Pass: Tokyo to Berlin," I whisper. Remembering how the silk sheets in Kyoto clung to my sweat-slicked spine while I arched for the camera—your voice humming through my earbuds, commanding me to hold that desperate curve. How Vienna’s chandelier light dripped gold down my throat as I parted my lips around nothing, imagining your hard cock fucking my mouth. Every shot a love letter written in goosebumps and bitten-off gasps, my darling. And now— my thumb hovers over "post," breath catching at the phantom heat of your approval. Fourteen cities, twenty-three mirrors fogged with my sighs, all waiting for your eyes to unravel me stitch by stitch. "I missed this," I say to the empty bathroom, "missed being your canvas." The upload bar glows like a promise.
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