Victoria, Anya, Ortega. Three statues wrapped in white linen, the fabric catching amber light like candle flames. Their posture spoke of power coiled just beneath ritual.
"You wanted all three?" Anya's voice had the cold clarity of crystal. "Convince us you're worthy."
"Or we walk," Ortega added, though the challenge in her eyes held intrigue.
Victoria moved first. Her fingers found the knot with surgical precision. A single tug. The silk towel sighed open, slithering down her powerful shoulders and back, pooling at her feet. She stood revealed – skin like warmed marble under low light, the long, elegant lines of her spine tightening as she reached for the fresh towel.
She knotted it high, just beneath her shoulder blades.
The terrycloth strained, taut across her upper ribs, deliberately framing the dramatic sweep of her spine down to the deep curve of her waist. The knot lifted her breasts slightly beneath the fabric, a teasing hint of fullness straining against white.
