Through the eye of a girl

Girls watch too. Always have. And when the camera catches one just right, the line between observer and participant blurs in a single heartbeat. She lies across the bed, blonde hair spilling like silk over the sheets, one hand already sliding between parted thighs. The camera follows every slow circle of her fingers, every catch of breath, every subtle arch of her back. Her eyes stay half-lidded, focused on the screen ahead where another girl, brunette, runs her own hands down her body with the same knowing rhythm. The blonde copies each movement. When the brunette pauses to cup her breast, so does she. When fingers slip lower, hers follow. She watches like she's learning a secret she already knows by heart. Sweat beads at her hairline. Her legs open wider. The soundtrack is nothing but her breathing, growing heavier, more urgent, until the final gasp breaks free and her body tightens then releases in soft, rolling waves.