Sweet nothingness

A girl stands there wearing almost nothing but a whisper of yellow feathers. The lingerie barely covers what it should. Blonde hair falls around her shoulders, soft and loose. She slips her fingers beneath the feathered band and drags it aside. Her skin is smooth and warm under her touch. She parts her legs just enough, letting her fingertips explore. Slow circles over tender flesh. A little gasp slips out. The brunette at the mirror watches her reflection, too, as though the sight itself is enough. Nothing moves fast. Every motion lingers. Every stroke is meant to be felt.