My butterfly

She spreads her legs and lets you see. There it is—the little butterfly tattooed high on her inner thigh, wings open, body pointing straight at the thin strip of silk covering her. Blonde hair falls over one shoulder as she watches you look. She runs a fingertip along the ink, tracing the line it draws to her cunt, and the silk darkens where she’s already wet. She presses the fabric aside with two fingers, showing the pink slit beneath. One slow circle, then another. Her breath catches. The tattoo seems to flutter every time her thigh tenses. She sinks lower in the chair, knees wider, and slips two fingers inside, fucking herself with lazy, wet sounds while the butterfly stays fixed right where it belongs—pointing at the place she wants you to watch.