Stare at my legs. Trace the stockings with your eyes, follow the curve of my thighs up to the sleek white pumps catching the light. That picture is meant to trap you, to keep you pinned under the heat of wanting what I wear and how I wear it.
You wish you could lick the dust from those heels while I keep them on, don’t you? Maybe I’ll let you taste them, or maybe I’ll trample that tiny urge into the floor. Either way, you’re going to obey the contest, and you’re going to lose.