Girl next door

She lives right next door, blonde and quiet, the girl you’ve only pictured naked in passing. Tonight she gives you the view you never asked for. Sophie Paris sits on the edge of her bed in thin black lace that barely covers anything. The fabric clings to her skin, straps cutting across her hips, the bra so sheer you can see the soft flush of her nipples underneath. She raises one leg, flexes her pointed foot, and runs her fingertips slowly along the arch. Her toes curl, then spread. She presses the sole flat against her thigh, slides it higher, then brings it to her mouth so she can taste her own skin. Her tongue traces a slow line from heel to toe before she lowers the foot again. Her free hand slips beneath the lace between her thighs. She rubs in small, steady circles, breathing harder as her fingers work. The lace stays on. She doesn’t take it off. She keeps stroking herself, eyes half-closed, foot flexing in the air, sole shining with her own spit. Every so often she pauses to press both soles together, feeling the warmth, before she returns to touching herself. No sound escapes except the quiet catch of her breath and the soft rustle of lace against skin. She comes with her foot still raised, toes pointed hard, body tight for one long second before it loosens again. Then she lowers her leg, lets her fingers rest, and smiles like she knows you’re still watching.