Petite

Cayenne carries herself with a quiet kind of boldness. Her body is small, tight, the kind that seems made for hands that know what they’re doing. She doesn’t hide it. She turns slowly, letting every angle speak for itself, skin smooth and pale, her small breasts rising and falling with each breath. Then she settles on the bed, legs parted, and her fingers begin to move. First along her thighs, then higher, tracing the soft crease where her legs meet. She likes to watch. Her fingers circle, press, slip inside with ease, the motion steady, unhurried. Her lips part. A quiet sound escapes. She doesn’t rush. She explores every inch of herself like she wants the viewer to remember it. The rhythm builds, her hips lifting in time with her hand, her breath quickening, until the tension crests and she lets it take her.