Afternoon Tea

She settled into the armchair with a quiet little sigh, afternoon light painting her skin pale gold. One knee hooked over the armrest, the other foot planted on the cushions, she lifted the hem of her dress until the cotton bunched at her hips. Her fingers slipped between her thighs and found the silk already damp. A slow circle, then another, and the fabric darkened under the press of her middle finger. The afternoon tea sat cooling on the side table, forgotten. She slid the panties down her thighs, kicked them free, then reached for the polished wooden toy waiting beside the cup. Cool at first touch, it warmed quickly against her palm. She pressed the rounded tip between her folds, rocked it until her body gave, and eased the smooth length inside with one careful push. Her breath caught. The muscles along her stomach fluttered. She pulled it back, pushed again, found a slow, steady rhythm that made her thighs tremble. Light glanced off the curve of the toy each time it disappeared, wetter now, glistening. She let her head fall against the chair, eyes half-lidded, lips parted, and kept working it in measured strokes while her free hand drifted up to cup one breast, thumb brushing the nipple until it tightened. Every drag out drew a soft sound from her throat; every push back in sent heat curling low in her belly. The chair creaked faintly beneath her. The toy moved faster, slick and insistent, until her toes curled against the cushion and her free hand gripped the armrest hard enough to whiten her knuckles. She bit her lower lip, breath quickening, riding each wave as it built and broke, the polished wood never slowing until the last tremor rolled through her and left her flushed, loose-limbed, and smiling at the ceiling.