Miss Kink

Nella moves like something breakable. Small bones, milk-white skin, a body that looks like it could fit inside your hands. She peels the cotton from her cunt and shows the slit. It barely parts. Pink. Closed. Like it has never been touched. She sets her fingers against the seam and circles once, twice, then presses until the lips spread open just enough for one fingertip to slip inside. Her knees fall wider. A soft sound leaves her, half breath, half question. She pushes deeper, knuckle by knuckle, the tiny hole stretching around her until her wrist is flush and the rest of her hand rests over the pale mound. Every slow thrust draws a thread of clear wetness that catches the light and runs down between her cheeks. She watches it happen. Pulls out, shiny, and pushes back in, slower, the sound wetter now. Her other hand finds one small breast, pinches the nipple, and she shivers but keeps the rhythm steady between her legs. The tighter she squeezes, the more the little cunt swallows her finger. She stays like that, quiet, breathing hard through her nose, until the sheets under her are damp and the flush on her chest has crept up her throat.