Backstage of Femme fatale

Jennifer sits before the mirror, letting her golden hair spill across her shoulders. Her legs stretch out beneath her, slim and endless, the kind of legs that make silk stockings a necessity. She traces her lips with two fingers, slow and deliberate, then slides those fingers lower until they reach the lace edge of her lingerie. Her breath catches. She watches herself in the glass while her hand moves beneath the delicate fabric, pressing and circling, coaxing pleasure from her own body. The thin straps of her lingerie shift with every small movement. Her thighs tighten, then fall open again. Her fingers work faster, then slower, teasing herself, owning every second. The air is thick with quiet, private heat. Her eyes stay locked on her reflection as the tension builds, tightens, then breaks.