In the lounge

Carla Cox steps into the lounge, the silver fabric slipping from her breasts and hips with a soft sound. She lets it fall. Her body meets the open air, smooth, pale, the blonde hair loose on her shoulders. She settles against the cushions and presses two fingers between her legs, slow at first, then quicker, the skin already wet and warm. The strokes grow firmer; her wrist moves in steady rhythm, knuckles brushing her inner thighs. A flush rises on her chest. Her mouth parts, breath catching, and when her fingers slide inside she arches her back, taking the pleasure all the way through her. Every pulse shows on her face—eyes half-closed, lips swollen, small sounds leaving her throat as she rides the motion to the end.