She is kneeling on the unmade bed, looking calm, but her eyes too bright to be innocent…

She is kneeling on the unmade bed, looking calm, but her eyes too bright to be innocent.  The sweater isn't really one, just an excuse of openwork wool, pale gray, too short, too open, tied behind the neck like a winter provocation. The fabric hugs her slim figure, revealing everything it claims to hide — her bare shoulders, the soft line of her collarbone, the elongated hollow between her tiny breasts that a single shiver would be enough to make dance. She has this North Mediterranean beauty with barely any makeup: full but dry lips, not glossy, natural cherry color, and light hazel eyes that she stares straight into the camera, half challenge, half invitation. Her hair, straightened without rigor, falls on one cheek as if it had slipped off a pillow. She is on her knees, a docile posture only on the surface — her fingers play with the hem of the sweater as if they are hesitant to pull, to pull up, or simply to wait for it to be taken off. The bed around her is rumpled, aged, familiar; she, no: she seems new with every movement, every breath. We feel the suspended expectation, the implicit play of what this sweater suggests, without ever frankly deciding whether it should show it — virgin killer sweater. <lora:VirginKiller:0.75>

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