Miss Panther

She moves like a predator, all blonde hair and black lingerie, lounging on the bed with that dangerous glint in her eyes. Her hand slides between her thighs without hesitation, fingers pressing against the thin fabric that barely covers her. She watches. She waits. Then she touches herself like she means it, slow at first, then harder, hips shifting with each stroke. The teen knows exactly what she wants and how to take it, no apologies, no patience for anyone who can't keep up. She comes because she decides to, because she can, because she's already claimed the moment as her own.