Sparetime sweetheart

She has spare hours, and she spends them exactly like this—stretched across the bed, hand buried between her thighs. Each stroke is slow, deliberate, then quicker, chasing the next jolt that makes her breath catch. She plays with her own pleasure the way most girls check their phones: often, openly, and without apology. The room stays quiet except for the soft, wet sound of her fingers working and the little gasps she gives when she finds the right spot. She drags it out, then rushes it, hips lifting off the sheets, mouth parted, eyes half-closed. Nothing on her mind but the next wave, and the next. When it finally hits, she lets it roll through her whole body until she’s limp, smiling to herself, already thinking about the next free moment she can steal for more.