Just a Sweater

A sweater barely covers her. She knows it. We know it. The fabric rides high across her hips, leaving nothing below to the imagination. Her skin warms beneath it. Her hand moves. She touches herself with slow, deliberate strokes, fingers teasing the soft skin of her breasts, tracing lazy circles around her nipples. The pressure builds. She slips the sweater higher, exposing more, until the last scrap of fabric slides off. Her body is bare now. Full, heavy breasts move with each breath. Her black hair falls across her shoulders, dark against pale skin. She spreads her legs wider, hand returning between them, working in a steady rhythm. Every stroke draws a sharper breath. Her back arches. The pleasure climbs. She doesn’t stop until it peaks, until her body trembles and her hand stills against slick skin.