Rosebud

Cayenne stands in the soft light. Twenty years old, if that. Barely dressed in silk that clings more than covers. The blonde hair spills loose across her shoulders, fine strands sticking to her neck where the skin is already warm. She slides the straps down her arms. Lets the lingerie fall to her ankles without ceremony. Steps out of it. Her nipples tighten at the change in air. She watches you watch her, then runs both hands up her ribs, slow, until she cups her small breasts. Pinches each tip once, sharp, just to feel it. Down again. She spreads her thighs, sits on the edge of the bed, plants her heels. Two fingers slip between her lips and come back wet. She rubs the wetness over her clit in tight circles, breathing through parted lips. When the pressure builds she lies back, knees bent, feet still planted. One hand keeps working her pussy, the other reaches up to tug at her own nipple again. Her hips lift off the mattress when she comes. Not loud, just a sharp exhale and the sudden flush across her chest. She keeps touching herself through it, slower now, almost lazy, until the aftershocks fade and her hand falls away, slick and open on her thigh.