Perfection

Sophie Moone stands before the mirror, lace bra stretched tight across her breasts, panties riding low on her hips. She slips one hand inside the front of the silk and touches herself, slow, sure, the way a woman does when no one else is invited. Her fingers part soft folds, find the wet heat, and begin a quiet rhythm that makes her breath catch. She watches her own reflection—golden hair falling over one shoulder, lips parted, eyes half-closed—and the sight makes her move faster. She pushes the fabric aside, needs skin on skin, and strokes the swollen bud with two slick fingertips, circling, pressing. Her knees weaken. She spreads her legs wider, leans into the dresser, and rubs harder. Wet sounds fill the room. She bites her lip, hips jerking now, chasing it. When the pleasure crests she lets out one sharp, trembling moan, thighs quivering, cunt pulsing against her own hand. She stays there a moment longer, stroking through the aftershocks, then draws her fingers away, glistening. The lace clings to her skin, damp where she touched herself. Perfection doesn’t need an audience. It only needs to feel this good.