Fervour in red

I lean back in the plush armchair, legs spread wide. My short black dress rides up my thighs, and the red heels on my feet look almost too sharp against the pale skin. One hand slips between my legs, and I start rubbing. Slow at first. Then faster. My blonde hair falls over one shoulder as I tilt my head back, mouth open, breathing hard. The silence of the house makes every wet sound louder. I press two fingers inside, then three, working myself open. My hips rock with the motion. I don’t stop until my legs shake and I come with a sharp gasp, fingers still moving, slower now, riding it out. Sweat beads at my collarbone. I lick my lips, already thinking about who might walk through that door next.