Trendy

I always follow the trends. Today it’s this little black dress, cut so high and low it barely counts as clothing. The fabric clings like a secret. Every time I move, something new shows—cleavage, the top of a thigh, the soft line where waist meets hip. I stand in front of the mirror and let the dress slip off one shoulder, then the other. Cool air kisses bare skin. My nipples tighten under the thin material, and I watch them press through. Fingers trail down my stomach, slip under the hem, find warmth. I’m already wet, slick against my own touch. One knee on the bed, then both, dress bunched at my waist. I spread wider, let the mirror see everything. Slow circles over my clit, two fingers sliding in and out, the wet sound filling the room. My breath hitches. Hips rock. The dress stays half-on, straps dangling, tits out, ass up—proof that sometimes the hottest fashion statement is nothing more than skin and need.