Elegant in black

She slips into the little black dress that hugs every curve and shows just enough. It feels like a second skin. She fastens the clasp at the back, checks the mirror, and wonders who will follow her home tonight. The fabric clings to her young breasts, the hem grazing the tops of her thighs. She runs her hands over the front, smoothing it, and lets her mind wander. Blonde hair falls across her shoulders. She imagines strong hands peeling the dress away later, and the thought makes her wet already. Her palm presses between her legs, right there in front of the mirror. She rubs herself through the dress and her panties at the same time, slow, deliberate circles. The mirror shows a flush creeping up her throat. She watches herself, eyes half-closed, and keeps touching. The dress rides up with each pass of her hand. When she can't wait anymore, she slides the straps off her shoulders, lets the dress fall to her waist, and frees one breast. Her nipple is already tight. She pinches it, rolls it between her fingers while her other hand stays busy between her thighs. She turns sideways, studying the way her body looks in the glass. The brunette wig she left on the dresser catches her eye. She puts it on, liking how the darker hair frames her face, changes her look. Now the girl in the mirror is someone else—still herself, just dressed differently. That makes her bolder. She pushes the dress completely off, steps out of it, and stands there naked except for tiny black panties. Her fingers slip beneath the lace. She parts her folds, finds the slickness waiting, and strokes deeper, two fingers sliding in and out while her thumb circles her clit. The black dress lies at her feet, forgotten for now. Her hips rock forward, chasing the feeling. Every breath comes quicker. She watches the girl in the mirror—blonde underneath the wig, young, hungry—and keeps going until her thighs tremble and her wrist aches from the steady rhythm. She leans against the dresser, mouth open, lost in it.