She stands barefoot on the floor, facing you directly — body fully exposed, front to front, under your gaze from above. You are standing slightly elevated — one foot on a low stool, or just leaning down from standing height — looking straight down at her. Her body is naked except for two thin black lace strips — no waistband, no coverage — just narrow vertical strings tied between her hips and around her glutes, barely touching her skin, leaving everything visible, the full, natural shape of her breasts — not perfect, not enhanced — soft, slightly asymmetrical, one nipple darker, more prominent, the other lighter, with a faint shadow beneath. Her skin is warm, dark, olive-toned — likely Afro-Caribbean or Latin, 30s, with the quiet marks of life, faint silver stretch marks across her lower ribs, a subtle dimpling of cellulite along her inner thighs, a thin scar just above her left hip. Her braided hair is pulled into a high puff, damp strands clinging to her neck and collarbone from sweat. Her eyes are locked on yours — not seductive, not shy, not pleading — just seeing you. No smile. No expression. Just breath. The light comes from a high window behind you — harsh, direct, casting your shadow over her chest, flattening her form into a silhouette of skin and lace, while your legs frame her from above. Sweat glistens on her sternum, her collarbone, the curve of her ribs. The room is quiet, a water bottle on the floor, a hoodie tossed on a chair, faint music still humming. The camera is mounted high — overhead, direct top-down angle — as if held in your hand, slightly shaky, too close. No filters. No makeup. No glamour. Just the texture of her skin, the wetness of the lace, the quiet rise and fall of her chest. This isn’t a pose. It’s a moment she allowed you to see — and now you can’t look away.