Wababedoowa

A 30-year-old woman, view from 3/4 front, half naked, partially nude, pale white skin, blue eyes, dark hair pulled into a tight, wet bun — petite stature, wide hips, naturally toned figure —, (((she wears a millitary battledress jacket open to show boobs))), stands in the shallow end of a quiet, enclosed tent. the entire curve of her pelvis and upper thighs are fully exposed, with no fabric covering her glutes or the space between them. The sides are slashed to the waist, the back dips to the base of her spine, the straps thin as thread. Water clings to her skin, the wet fabric barely clinging to her chest, leaving her shoulders and collarbone bare. She stands with legs slightly apart, hips tilted forward — wide, heavy, natural — one hand resting on the table edge, head lowered, eyes closed. Not posing. Not performing. Just being. Sunlight cuts through the glass window, highlighting the sweat on her skin, the shadow between her thighs, the softness of her curves. Her pale skin glows — flawless, cool, untouched by tan. A few stray drops trail from her bun down her neck. Camera is low, handheld, from the poolside — as if you’re standing there, not filming, just watching. No filters. No glamour. Just heat. Just sweat. Just her.