The body

They call her The Body for a reason. Clara moves through the room with that slim waist and those wide hips pulling every eye without effort. Her tits sit high and heavy, big and firm, the kind that keep their shape even when she leans forward. Her ass is tight, round, and her legs stay long and smooth as she drops onto the bed in a whisper of sheer lingerie. Alone, she does not rush. She runs her hands over her own curves, lingering where the fabric gives way to skin. When she lets the straps slide, her full breasts tumble free, nipples already stiff. One hand slips between her thighs, the other toys with the soft spill of her belly, enjoying the weight of herself. She reaches for the bowl beside her. A cold splash of milk hits her stomach first, then she brings the glass lower. With each slow pour between her cheeks, her body answers. The milk runs, the pressure builds, and when it escapes her she lets it—short, wet sounds that make her grin. She keeps her legs parted, still stroking, still watching the way her own skin glistens. Every movement stays deliberate, hungry, and unashamed.