Like the Ocean

Aletta Ocean. She pours over herself like a tide. Her hips roll. Her hands follow, slow at first, then certain. Full breasts sway with every motion, heavy, round, perfect under her own touch. She cups one, then the other, fingers sinking into the soft flesh, thumbs brushing the stiff peaks until they darken and rise. She spreads her legs wider, knees open to the air. Two fingers part her lips, slick already, and she watches them glisten before sliding them deeper. She moves in steady pulls, wrist twisting just enough to catch the spot that makes her breath catch. Her back arches, hair spilling across the sheets, mouth open on a low moan. She works herself harder, hips lifting to meet her hand, wetness glistening on her knuckles. Every stroke draws another sound from her, raw, hungry. Her thighs tremble. She presses harder, chasing the edge, until her body locks and breaks in one long, liquid shudder.