Black panther

My instincts flare. Blood rushes. Every nerve wakes up as the last of the twilight slips away. The night presses in, thick and warm, and I can feel it moving through me—hot, pulsing, alive. The chair’s wicker bites gently at the backs of my thighs. Leaves whisper above, a soft, steady rustle. I sit there, half-naked, blonde hair spilling over one shoulder, skin prickling in the cooling air, and I know exactly how good I look. The thought makes me wet. My fingers drift between my legs. I press, circle, slow at first, then quicker, chasing that slick heat until my hips lift and my breath breaks. The house is quiet. I’m not. Every stroke drags a low sound from my throat. I push two fingers inside, draw them out shining, rub the wet over my clit, feel it swell and throb. My other hand cups a breast, squeezes, pinches the nipple until it stings sweet. I spread wider. The wicker creaks. I don’t care. My legs tremble. I fuck myself harder, knuckles glistening, the wet sound loud in the dark. When it hits, my whole body locks, cunt clenching tight around my fingers, thighs shaking, mouth open on a silent cry. I stay like that a moment, pulsing, slick running down my knuckles, the night air cooling the sweat on my skin. Then I smile. Slow. Satisfied. The dark is mine now.