Arabian nights

I’m the only story tonight. My master isn’t here to listen, so I’ll give the words to my own body. Blonde hair spills over the pillow, long legs spread open on silk sheets the color of midnight. Fingers slide down between soft thighs, parting smooth lips that are already slick and warm. Two fingertips circle the swollen nub until the first sigh escapes—quiet, but hungry. I sink lower, pressing my palm flat, rubbing harder now. My hips lift, chasing the rhythm, and every slow stroke makes my breath hitch. The brunette on the screen doesn’t move; only I do, hips rolling, cunt glistening under the low lamp. I slip two fingers inside, knuckles glistening, and the wet sound fills the quiet room. Faster. Deeper. My free hand cups a breast, pinching a nipple until the sting turns to pleasure. Sweat beads at my hairline. My thighs start to shake. I grind against my palm, breath coming in short bursts, until the knot inside me snaps. I come hard, back arched, mouth open in a silent cry that finally feels like rest.