Fresh bluebell

She’s lying back on white sheets, that sheer blue dress barely clinging to her. The color matches the flush spreading over her skin. No panties—just the dress riding up, exposing the smooth skin between her legs. Her fingers are already working, slick and slow, parting herself with that same dreamy slowness as the petals opening in sunlight. She’s blonde, hair fanned out like a halo, mouth parted, hips rocking up into her own hand. Every motion deliberate, hungry, the fabric whispering against her thighs as she finds that perfect rhythm, chasing something she clearly intends to finish.