Lady of the night

The speculum spreads her lips and locks. Cold metal, warm flesh. She watches herself in the mirror, thighs open, back straight. One hand keeps the toy steady; the other moves lower, fingers circling the tight knot of nerves just above it. Every twist of the screw changes the angle, and the pressure against her walls makes her wetter, slicker. She breathes through parted lips, eyes half-closed, and keeps turning, keeps rubbing, until the ache inside her is thick enough to taste. She doesn’t rush. She wants the throb to build until it pulses all the way down her legs. The small mirror between her knees shows everything: the bright glint of steel, the flush of pink skin, the slow shine that gathers and drips.