A 30-year-old woman, pale white skin, blue eyes, dark hair in a tight wet bun — petite, slightly muscular, with broad shoulders and wide hips. She sits on the edge of the pool, not in water, legs slightly apart, one foot resting on the tile, the other dangling. Her white swim bodysuit is cut impossibly high — the front reduced to a single thread, fully exposing her pubic area and labia. Her large breasts press against the sheer fabric, nipples hard and sharply visible. She doesn’t look at you. She slowly, quietly, shifts her weight — just enough to let her hips roll forward in a soft, involuntary motion. The movement is subtle — a breath, a tilt, a sigh — and for a second, the wet fabric clings tighter, revealing the full curve beneath. Her head tilts back slightly, lips parting as she exhales, eyes closed. Cold fluorescent light glows evenly. Water drips from her collarbone. Camera low, front-on, handheld — as if you’re kneeling before her, not speaking, not moving. No filters. No glamour. Just her. Just the silence.