I love rock'n'roll

She steps into the empty studio and the door clicks shut behind her. The soundproof walls swallow every breath. Blonde hair catches the overhead light as she kicks off her shoes, hips swaying to a beat that only plays inside her head. Tight denim clings to a big ass that moves like the bass line of a slow-burning track. She smiles at the thought of being caught and climbs onto the mixing desk, knees spread. Hands slide under the hem of her top, fingers tracing soft skin before the fabric lifts away. A quick twist frees her breasts; the nipples tighten from the chill of the room. She gives them a teasing pinch, then pops the button on her jeans. The zipper rasps open. Her hand slips past the waistband and finds the heat between her thighs. Soft, wet sounds fill the quiet space as she rubs slow circles over her clit. The music in her mind picks up tempo. She rocks her hips against her palm, thighs tensing, ass flexing with every shift. Her jeans slide lower, caught at mid-thigh, exposing the pale curve of her bottom to the empty console. She curls two fingers inside, breath catching on each stroke. The desk vibrates faintly under her. She leans back, head tilted, eyes half-closed, mouth parted. Her free hand grips the edge of the desk, knuckles white. The rhythm drives faster; her wrist snaps quicker. Pleasure coils tight, then snaps. She shudders hard, thighs quivering, a soft cry breaking against the soundproof glass. Afterward she stays sprawled, chest rising and falling, fingers glistening in the dim light. The studio keeps her secret.