Sandy's Room

Sandy shuts her bedroom door and the room changes shape around her. The air feels heavier, every surface warmer. She stretches across the sheets like she owns them, then rolls onto her stomach so her ass lifts high, round and full, catching the light. Her hand slips between her legs and starts working, slow at first, then quicker, fingers sinking and pulling back in the same greedy rhythm she wants. Each stroke makes her hips rock. She reaches back with her other hand and grabs one cheek, spreading herself wider, showing off exactly what she likes. The soft sounds she makes grow louder, short and breathless. She rides her own fingers like she’s starving for it, blonde hair spread over the pillow, body tight and glowing with sweat. Every time her ass lifts again it catches the eye, pale skin flushed pink where her grip leaves marks. She keeps going, lost in the motion, hips rolling hard against her hand until the mattress creaks under her and the room is full of her low, broken moans.