Pretty in pink

She slips off her robe and stands in the middle of the room wearing nothing but pink lace. A bra the color of cotton candy hugs her small breasts, thin straps digging into her shoulders. A tiny thong rides high on her hips, the front panel sheer enough to show the pale, trimmed strip between her thighs. The red hair she swore she would never dress in pink cascades over pale shoulders, the color clash so sharp it makes the lingerie pop even brighter. She turns slowly. The thong disappears between her cheeks, then reappears when she faces forward again. One hand drifts down, fingers brushing the lace. She presses the pad of two fingertips against the fabric, rubbing a slow circle over her clit through the thin weave. The material darkens where she touches it. She smiles, shy but sure, and spreads her legs a little wider so the pink thong pulls tight across her mound. She sinks onto the edge of the bed, legs still open. Her fingers slide inside the thong now, stroking bare skin. Her middle finger dips lower, finds slick heat, and pushes in. She moans, low and surprised at herself. The lace stays pushed to the side, bunched against her outer lip while she works two fingers in and out, slow and wet. Every so often she pulls them free and rubs the gloss over her swollen clit, then pushes back inside. Her free hand cups one breast through the bra, thumb circling the hard nipple until the lace is damp. She keeps the rhythm steady, hips lifting to meet her own hand, breathing turning short and sharp. The pink lingerie clings to every move she makes, straps slipping, fabric twisting, wet sounds filling the quiet room.