Tousled hair framing her down-turned face, rosy nipples erect, stockinged thighs pressed coquettishly together, legs long and lean accentuated by vertiginous stilettos, the gems on the tiny g-string sparkling in the low light. One arm hooked high on the wardrobe door, the other gently caressing her hip, she waits for the detached glass eye to capture her pose.
It is a poor substitute, this mechanical silver box, staring, gazing but never truly seeing the desire rising up from deep within and prickling her skin. Orange light blinking, body momentarily frozen, she wonders if he will sense just how she aches for his presence, yearns for the sensation of his fingers trailing over her burning naked flesh, his large hand cupping her moist flower, his strong masculine body overwhelming her from behind, drawing her into his own incendiary lust.
On this steamy, airless night it is her only means to him, to his eyes, to his body hungry and needy. And on this night all she has is this feeling, this intensity, this moment, frozen in time, alone in her room.