Sandy's muffins

They say real men don't eat muffins, but Sandy's muffins change the rules. She stands in her kitchen wearing a sheer blue dress that clings like lingerie, nothing underneath. The fabric is thin enough to see the color of her nipples pressing against it. Sandy lifts one warm muffin to her mouth, takes a slow bite, and a crumb falls between her breasts. She watches it land, then drags a finger through the valley of her chest to catch it. The dress shifts with every movement, riding higher on her hips until the lower curve of her ass is bare. She sets the muffin down, slips her hand beneath the hem, and finds herself already wet. Her fingers move in lazy circles while she keeps eye contact with the camera, breathing through parted lips. She turns, bends forward over the counter, and the dress pulls tight across her ass, the pale flesh spreading slightly under the pressure. Two fingers push inside her. She rocks her hips in a steady rhythm, soft sounds escaping her throat. The blue fabric clings to her skin, damp now at the small of her back. She straightens just enough to slide the dress off one shoulder, exposing a full breast, then returns to her task, working herself deeper, faster, until her thighs tremble and she has to grip the edge of the counter to stay upright.