Backstage for January 2011

Murka stands alone in the low light of the dressing room, feet planted wide, palms flat on the floor. She leans into each stretch until the muscle along her thigh quivers. Her leotard clings, already damp where it presses between her legs. She rolls her hips in a slow circle, testing the give of the fabric, then peels it down one shoulder. The soft slope of her breast slips free; she cups it without hurry, thumb grazing the nipple until it tightens. Her breath stays even as she steps out of the suit entirely, folds it, and sets it on the chair. Naked now, she sinks into a deep squat, knees open, fingertips trailing the slick seam of her sex. She parts herself, shows the pink inner lips, then stands again and bends forward until her cheek touches the cool wall. One hand reaches behind, spreads her ass, and the camera catches the tight, darker ring of muscle before she straightens. Every movement is deliberate, unhurried, her eyes half-lidded but aware. When she straightens once more, she runs both palms down the front of her body, smoothing over ribs, belly, the trimmed patch of hair, and ends with a single, satisfied exhale.