At home

My place is where I breathe easy. Quiet. Safe. Exactly where I want to touch myself. I’m already in lace. Black against pale skin. The bra barely holds me, and the panties are thin enough to feel everything through. I stretch out on the sofa, legs open, one hand sliding between them. Slow at first. Just the heat of my fingers pressing. Then firmer. Rubbing the fabric until it clings. A soft sound slips out when I push the lace aside. Two fingers sink in, wet and warm. I watch them disappear, then come back slick. My hips roll with the motion. The other hand pulls a breast free. I pinch the nipple, roll it, feel the sharp spark shoot straight down. I don’t rush. I know exactly how I like it. Circles. Pressure. A little drag of a fingernail along the clit when I need that bite. Every stroke pulls me deeper. My breath gets heavier. My thighs tighten. I spread wider, chasing the edge. When it hits, I bite my lip and ride it out. The tremor rolls through me. My fingers stay inside until the last pulse fades. Then I pull them free, wet and glistening, and let the quiet settle again.