Alone at home

Nansy stands alone in the living room, the football match forgotten on the screen behind her. She wears black lace lingerie that clings to her skin, the thin straps pressing into her shoulders, the sheer cups barely covering her breasts. Her blonde hair falls down her back in loose waves. She runs her hands down her body, fingertips sliding over lace and flesh. When she reaches the waistband of her panties, she pauses, then pushes them lower. The fabric slides down her thighs and pools around her ankles. She steps out of them and sits on the edge of the couch, knees parted. Her hand moves between her legs. She touches herself slowly at first, testing, then with more purpose. Two fingers circle her clit while the other hand cups one breast through the bra. She pinches her nipple, hard enough to make her breath catch. Her hips shift forward. She presses two fingers inside, draws them out glistening, and rubs the wetness over her clit again. The game drones on behind her. Nansy doesn’t look back. She leans deeper into the couch, legs wider, fingers moving faster now. Her mouth opens. A small sound escapes her throat. She keeps going until her thighs tremble and her back arches off the cushions, coming hard with her hand still buried between her legs.