Sophia woke to the distant call of the dawn prayer, but it wasn't the azan that truly pulled her from sleep.
It was the heavy warmth the night had left curled inside her body, and the dream she could no longer recall in detail—only the sensation: a shy hand brushing against her, then fleeing, as though the very touch was terrified of its own courage.
She rose slowly. The sheet slid from her thighs like a quiet tide retreating. The rose-pink pants still clung to her, slightly damp from the night before, carrying her own private scent—a delicate fusion of faint sweat and restrained desire.
She padded to the bathroom on soft bare feet, the cold tiles sending tiny shivers racing up her spine with every step. She closed the door behind her gently, almost fearfully, as though the world might overhear what she was about to do—even though it was nothing more than morning routine.
She relieved herself, then stood before the sink.
She turned on the tap and let the cold water pour over her face. Heavy drops glided down her cheeks, slipped along her neck, stole beneath the wide rose-pink top until they reached the soft swell of her breasts. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the chill refresh her, washing away the lingering traces of night.
She returned to her room while the house still slept, wrapped in silence broken only by the distant hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
She stood before the full-length mirror fixed to the wardrobe door.
The faint morning light slipped through the thin curtains, bathing her skin in pale gold. She gazed at her reflection for a long time… then turned slowly, offering her back to the mirror, lifting her chin just a fraction as though challenging herself.
In this light her rear looked fuller, more generous, sculpted with such perfect restraint that nature seemed to have lingered lovingly over every curve—neither excessive nor sparing. The rose-pink fabric molded to her like a second skin, accentuating every detail, every swell.
She took her phone in her right hand.
Raised it behind her, camera aimed at the mirror, capturing the view everyone sees from behind but few dare to linger on.
Then she began.
She lifted her left hand and delivered a light slap to the right cheek. The sound echoed softly in the quiet room, a small, private applause. Then the left cheek—slightly harder this time. The flesh quivered gently, a delicate ripple traveling across the skin.
She repeated it, hand after hand, the strikes gradually quickening—not cruel, but firm enough to coax a faint blush rising beneath the thin fabric.
With every impact the material sank deeper between the cheeks, carving a deeper line that separated and defined them more sharply, making the rounded fullness stand out with shameless clarity.
The camera recorded everything: the tremor, the deepening rose-red that spread like dark petals, the soft, rhythmic patter of palm against flesh, the way her breathing grew heavier, more fractured.
She continued for a full minute—perhaps longer—until heat bloomed through her entire body, right down to the tips of her toes.
Then she stopped abruptly.
She watched the video on her phone, eyes glittering with a slow, lascivious shine.
She uploaded it directly to her secret account.
This time she added no long caption.
Just one sentence in the description:
"Good morning… to whoever deserves it."
She closed the phone.
Took a deep, shuddering breath. The arousal still pulsed through her veins in gentle, lingering waves.
She peeled the rose-pink pants down slowly, let them fall to the floor like a shed piece of the night.
She dressed for school: the crisp white blouse pulled taut across her chest, the relatively short skirt, the white knee-high socks that stopped halfway up her thighs.
She descended the stairs.
The scent of toasted bread and mint tea filled the kitchen like a soft embrace.
Her mother Lina was there, setting the usual breakfast plate in front of Sophia's chair: fried eggs, white cheese, olives, warm bread.
"Good morning, my love."
Lina kissed her forehead, then looked at her with a small, knowing smile.
"You look especially lively today… did you sleep well?"
"Yes, Mama… really well."
Sophia answered in a calm voice as she sat and took a bite of bread, trying to hide the faint, wicked smile that threatened to curl her lips.
She ate quickly enough, time slipping past, the day waiting for her at school… and at school, he was waiting.
She left the house, schoolbag slung over her shoulder, the morning sun brushing her face like a warm greeting.
But beneath her outward calm, her heart beat to a different rhythm.
She knew the video was now spreading through the digital dark, that unseen eyes were already drinking it in—yet her mind was fixed on one place alone:
that classroom,
that front-row seat,
with the shy boy who didn't dare look… afterward.
And today, perhaps, she would begin to make him look.
Look much, much longer.