It’s a work of art, isn’t it?

The way the sun filters through the lace leaving trails of
lights and shadows; the way it illuminates and decorates my mound; the way it
merges with the tiny strip I left unshaved – like an arrow pointing to my
secret.

And soon I’ll slide down those panties and I’ll take them
off, unveiling that secret to the world. I know someone is there, in those
buildings in front of me, looking at me. I feel his – or her – eyes fixed on me
through the windows or the lenses of small binoculars.

I almost see that person’s hand stroking either his cock or
her clit, imagining to be here with me, imagining to taste my juicy cunt or to
just look at me, showing their appreciation until their orgasm abruptly explodes.

I see it, and I love it.

I feel beautiful. I’m a work of art.