Red fever

Red fabric hugs her pale skin like it was made for it. Sandra lets the silk bra settle over her breasts and tugs the tiny matching thong up between her cheeks. She steps back from the mirror, tilts her head. The color wakes something in her. No deep reason, no grand theory about blondes and red—just a simple, selfish wish to look hot. And she does. She runs both hands down her sides, thumbs catching the waistband, then slips one hand lower. The first slow circles press through the thin cloth. Heat spreads. Her breath shortens. Fingers slip inside the thong, skin on skin now, slick and urgent. She watches herself in the glass, legs parting, hips tilting forward. Every stroke tightens. Her free hand cups a breast, pinching the nipple through lace. The red darkens where she’s wet. She rocks harder, chasing it, breath catching each time her fingertips glide over that swollen spot. When the rush hits she bites her lip, thighs shaking, eyes half-closed, lost to the quick, sweet pulse rolling through her.