Fallen angel

She looks innocent. Golden hair frames her face like a halo. The kind of girl you meet at a café, not in a fantasy. Then her fingers move. Slow at first, testing the ache between her legs. She parts her knees and the mask slips. Her panties are gone. Nothing left to hide. She spreads herself open, two fingers tracing the wet, pink center of her cunt. Each stroke draws a breath, a moan, a deliberate circle around her clit. Her thighs tremble. Her nipples stand sharp against the air. She slides one finger deep inside, then another, working the slick heat with steady purpose. Her hips lift to meet her hand. She fucks herself like she owns it. Like she wants you to watch. The softness of her face never changes. Only the rhythm between her legs grows harder, wetter, louder. She is blonde. She is young. She is alone. And she is anything but shy.