Horny housewife

My husband is glued to the soccer match again, and I’m left simmering in the kitchen. The empty house presses in. My body hums with a want I won’t hand to anyone else, so I keep it for myself. I lift the ripe peach from the counter and press its cool, fuzzy weight to my lips. Juice beads on my tongue. I trace the wet fruit over my breasts, teasing the stiff peaks until they glisten and ache. Each pass sends a low throb between my thighs. The fruit slips lower. I spread my legs, plant one bare foot on the chair, and drag the slick peach across my folds. The flesh yields, soft and warm. I circle my clit with it until my breath stutters, then press the rounded curve inside. I fuck myself with the fruit in slow, greedy strokes, feeling every ripple, every wet sound that fills the quiet room. My fingers work faster. My hips rock, chasing the pulse that builds, then breaks—sharp, wet, unstoppable. Juice runs down my thighs, but I keep going until the last tremor fades and the peach slips free, spent and glistening.