Iwia's daydreams

Work drags. Iwia’s mind slips. One moment she’s staring at the screen, the next she’s picturing hands on her hips, a mouth at her neck. Her pulse trips into a faster beat. Heat gathers low and wet between her legs. Fingers trace over cotton, then under, skimming the soft rise of her breast. She peels her top away, cool air tightening her nipples to stiff peaks. Her skirt hikes up. Panties slide aside. Two fingers glide through slick folds, circling the swollen bud until her thighs start to tremble. She pushes inside, palm grinding, hips lifting off the chair with every slow thrust. Wet sounds fill the quiet room. Her breath stutters, breaks. The rush hits hard—thighs clamping, walls pulsing around her fingers. She rides it out until the shivers fade, until the ache is nothing but a warm throb. She tugs her clothes back into place, settles, and the numbers on the screen look almost bearable again.