Wet Dress

Spencer Scott's body stops every thought. White fabric clings to every curve, her nipples already pressing hard against the cotton. The dress is soaked; no shower, no ice-cold spray can chill the heat rolling off her skin. Fingers trail down her belly, slip under the wet hem, and she parts her thighs without hesitation. She rubs slow circles over her clit, breath catching, tits rising and falling with each stroke. When she pinches a nipple through the sheer dress the moan leaves her lips before she can stop it. Legs spread wider on the marble, fingers sink in deep, glistening. The soft slap of skin against skin fills the room. She leans back, tits bouncing, hips grinding on her own hand until the tension snaps and a wet cry echoes off the tiles.