Green velvet

She runs her hand along the green cushion. Velvet. The same velvet that covers a high-end bed, only this one sits under the hard slate. She climbs onto the felt, knees sinking in, and the skirt rides up without any help. Her fingers trace the inside of her thigh first, slow, then higher, until the panties are nothing but a thin scrap shoved to one side. The touch is warm, slick, and the table stays silent while she starts to rub. She parts her legs wider, feet braced on the wooden rail, and every small circle of her fingers makes the green surface shift under her weight. She bites her lip, eyes half-closed, working the rhythm she likes best. No toy, just skin, and the quiet sound her breath makes when it catches. The velvet stays cool beneath her, a quiet contrast to the heat building between her thighs. She moves faster, hips lifting, until the first pulse takes her and she presses down hard, riding it out on the green felt like it was made for this.