Smut, Spice and everything nice

I want to please you

Emily

The steam from my shower clings to the bathroom mirror, and as I wipe it away, I catch a glimpse of myself. Water droplets trail down my body, glistening under the soft bathroom light, and for a brief moment, I allow myself to admire the reflection looking back at me. It's strange, standing here, feeling this quiet confidence in myself—something that wasn't there just a few months ago. The Pilates class, the late-night runs, the extra care with my diet, it's all starting to pay off. My body feels firmer, stronger, more... desirable.

Desirable. That's the word that lingers in my mind as I tie my robe loosely around me, the soft fabric clinging to my damp skin. And of course, all I can think of is Josh. Josh with his broad shoulders, the way his shirts stretch tight across his chest, his dark, tousled hair, those intense eyes that seem to look through everyone—everyone but me. He's always with her, Jessica, prancing around with her perfect legs and glossy hair, like a goddess who doesn't even have to try. And yet, here I am, craving him, fantasizing about him in ways that would make me blush if I wasn't alone.

I've spent months obsessing over him. Every time he walks past me in class, I feel like my pulse quickens, like my body reacts to his presence before my mind even catches up. I don't even think he knows I exist—how pathetic is that? He's never even looked at me twice, too busy wrapped up in his world with Jessica. But I see him. I watch the way his hands move, the way he laughs, that rough sound that sends a shiver down my spine. I imagine those hands gripping my waist, pushing me up against a wall, his lips on my neck, his breath hot against my skin. God, I can't stop thinking about it. About him. About us.

And then, there's the image. The impulsive, reckless, maybe-stupid decision I just made. I didn't plan to send him anything. I mean, what kind of girl does that? What kind of girl just takes a naked picture of herself and sends it to a guy who hasn't even given her the time of day? Apparently, I do. But it's not just any picture—it's the picture. I was in the shower, my hands running over my skin, the water hot and soothing, and all I could think about was him. About how it would feel if he were here, right now, with me.

So, I grabbed my phone. My hands were trembling, but I ignored the nerves. I snapped the photo. Just me, completely bare, vulnerable. My skin still wet from the shower, my breasts full and soft, my curves accentuated by the light. I won't lie, I know I look good. The Pilates classes have been paying off. My body is firmer, my stomach flatter, my legs toned. And my breasts—well, thank God for genetics, because they're perfect. Full, round, the kind of breasts that make men stop and stare. I know it, and I bet Josh will know it too.

Without overthinking, I sent it. I just... sent it. To Josh. The guy who barely even knows I exist, the guy who's been in my class all semester but never so much as glanced in my direction. And now, my entire naked body is on his phone.

What if he thinks I'm crazy? What if he shows it to his friends? What if... God, what if he doesn't even care?

I place my phone on the counter, trying to distract myself. I tie my robe tighter around me, wrapping the fabric around my body like a protective shield as I step into the kitchen. The music from my Spotify playlist still plays softly in the background, and the song changes to Taylor Swift's "Delicate." How fitting. I feel like one of those girls—the kind who throws herself at a guy just to be noticed. But it's too late now. I've already sent it, and there's no taking it back.

As I pour myself a glass of orange juice, I keep glancing at my phone, willing it to light up with a response from Josh. But nothing. No message, no reaction, no acknowledgment. I take a sip of juice, the cold liquid doing nothing to calm the storm of anxiety building in my chest.

What if he thinks I'm disgusting? What if he looked at my body and didn't feel a thing? Maybe Jessica's the only type of girl he's into. Maybe I'm just... not good enough.