The mask

She held the carved mask and let her mind drift. There it was, staring back at her: the idea of two selves, one hidden under the other. The shy girl everyone sees, the shameless wanton underneath. She decided to show both. The camera catches her standing in soft light, blonde hair falling loose around a young face that still carries that fresh, untouched look. Her black eyes flick from the mask to her own body, already warm. She sets the mask aside, steps out of her skirt, and settles on the bed. Her fingers move without hesitation. She touches the thin strip of lace between her legs, presses, rubs, the fabric darkening. A soft sigh escapes as she slips those fingers beneath, stroking slick folds, parting them to circle the swollen nub at the top. Her knees spread wider, toes curling against the sheets. She pauses only to peel the lace away, then returns, two fingers sliding inside, pumping slow at first, then faster, the wet sound of her own excitement growing louder. Her free hand cups a small breast, thumb flicking the nipple until it tightens. Her lips part, breath quick and uneven, yet her eyes stay calm—almost playful—as if daring the lens to guess which girl she really is. Hips roll to meet every thrust of her hand. The rhythm builds until her thighs quiver, a flush rising over pale skin. She bites her lower lip, moans, and comes hard, back arching off the bed, fingers buried deep while the other hand keeps working her clit through the spasms. When it passes she stays open, glistening, catching her breath, the mask resting beside her like proof she can be both girls at once.