Five o'clock tea

Her grandma took tea at five. She takes her cunt instead. The second the cup touches the porcelain she’s already pushing fingers beneath the tablecloth. Fingertips slide along slick folds, find the swollen nub, and press. A soft sound leaves her throat—half sigh, half dare. Blonde strands fall across one eye as her hips tilt forward, chasing that friction. She peels the panties down one thigh, then the other, letting them hang around an ankle. The air hits wet skin and she spreads wider, two fingers sinking in with a wet sound that seems loud in the quiet room. Her free hand cups a small breast, pinching the stiff peak through thin cotton, and her back arches in response. Every thrust makes the tea steam rise in lazy curls. She fucks herself deeper, palm slapping softly against her clit, breath growing shorter. Legs tremble on the chair; knees fall open like an invitation no one else is meant to see. When the first tight flutter hits, she bites her lip hard, then lets a broken moan spill out anyway. The porcelain stays untouched. Five o’clock belongs to her fingers now, and they keep working until her thighs shake and the chair creaks beneath the slick, steady rhythm.