BaileyRayne looks like the church’s worst-kept secret, a walking confession wrapped in black and bone-white. The habit drapes over her shoulders like a funeral shroud, glossy silk turning every shadow into an omen.
There’s a crucifix at her throat, but it hangs heavy because I think the look is going for less salvation, more warning. The rosary beads click when she moves, counting down to something unholy. Somewhere between sacred and profane, she stands perfectly still, and the air forgets how to breathe. And that smile is all knowing of all kinds of suns that are coming in.
A sermon in stilettos, a hymn in hellfire. In the flicker of candlelight, the line between prayer and possession blurs, and BaileyRayne is standing right on it with many sins to go!
Welcome to my cam room!
