Stretching

I peel the sweat-damp clothes from my skin, one piece at a time, and the cool air kisses every inch it finds. My fingertips follow, sliding over flushed curves, pressing into muscles that are still humming from the workout. The heat lingers, low in my belly, and each slow stroke turns that heat into something sweeter. I linger on the tight spots—thighs, stomach, the soft swell of my breasts—tracing little circles until my breath catches. Nothing fancy, just the steady press of my own hand, the quiet rhythm I know so well. My legs part on instinct. Fingers slip lower, find the slick warmth waiting for them, and the first gentle stroke makes my hips lift. I work myself open with slow, deliberate pressure, sinking into the feeling until every lazy circle sends a pulse through my core. The world narrows to the sound of my breathing, the wet sound of skin on skin, the slow build that rolls through me like warm honey. I keep it easy, teasing the edge without rushing, letting each new wave of pleasure bloom a little deeper than the last.