Single lady in red

She wears red. Nothing else. The fabric clings to her hips, then slips off her shoulders, and she lets it fall. You are the only witness, and she never once looks away. Her fingers trace the line of her breast, circle a nipple until it tightens, then move lower, parting her thighs so nothing is hidden. She is slim, every curve smooth and open, and she touches herself slowly, deliberately, pressing two fingers inside and drawing them out wet. The rhythm deepens. Her hips lift to meet her hand, breath shortens, and the red dress stays crumpled beneath her. She reaches the edge, holds it, and lets go. Her body pulses, thighs quiver, and the soft sound she makes is for you alone.