Desert sun

Sunlight cuts across the sand like a blade. The only thing alive out here is Anita Pearl. She meets your eyes and smiles like she already owns the afternoon. Then her fingers drift to the first button. Cloth falls away in slow, practiced motions. Underneath, her skin is honey-warm and bare. She lies back on the blanket, knees parted, and lets her hand wander between her thighs. Her touch is unhurried, private, every stroke a quiet promise. The desert stays silent while she works herself closer to the edge, eyes half-lidded, breath catching on every quickening circle. You watch, and nothing else moves.