Little Miss Sunshine

The blonde sits on the edge of her bed, arms wrapped around her own knees. Sun. She is small, pale, every movement deliberate. She lets the robe slip off one shoulder, then the other. The fabric pools at her waist. Underneath she is bare, skin already prickling. One hand moves between her legs. She parts her thighs a little more, finds the spot that makes her breath catch. Fingers slide, slow at first, then quicker. Her hips tilt, small muscles flexing. She watches her own hand work, eyes half-closed, mouth open. The room is quiet except for the soft, wet sound she makes and the faint catch of air every time she pushes deeper. She brings herself higher, faster, until the rhythm breaks into a sudden, tight shudder. Her legs close around her hand. For a moment everything stops. Then she exhales, soft and shaky, and the room feels warmer.