Sophie's toy

Sophie's on the bed, legs spread just enough to let the camera see everything. She holds up a slender pink toy, glossy from whatever she smeared on it moments ago. “Perfect fit,” she murmurs, and slides the tapered tip along her slit, testing the give of her own skin. A slow push, and the toy disappears by half. She exhales through her teeth, pulls it out again, wetter now, and does it twice more—each time a little deeper, a little faster. Her free hand drifts to her breast, thumb flicking the nipple until it tightens into a pale pink bead. She lifts her hips, chases the angle she likes, and the toy starts to buzz. The sound is low, steady, a background hum under every small gasp. She works the toy in smooth strokes, never rushing, letting the vibrations climb inside her until her thighs start to shake. One foot plants flat on the sheet; the other stays hooked over her knee, giving her room to grind against the buzzing length. Her breathing shortens. The toy glistens every time it slips free, a thin strand clinging between silicone and skin before she pushes it back in. She finds a rhythm, shallow then deep, shallow then deep, and the muscles in her stomach tighten visibly. A flush rises on her chest, spreads to her throat. Her lips part; she bites the lower one, eyes half-closed. When the pace picks up, her wrist flexes, driving the toy faster, harder, until the first tremor runs through her. She doesn’t stop. She rides it out, keeps the toy pressed exactly where she needs it, lets the orgasm roll over her in tight, pulsing waves. Only when the last ripple fades does she ease the toy out, slow and careful, leaving a slick shine on her inner thigh and a sleepy, satisfied curl to her mouth.