Shopping in Faro

She steps into the fitting room with a handful of lace. Her hair catches the light—soft, pale, and straight down her back. She peels off her top, then her jeans, and stands in nothing but a white thong and bare skin. The mirror throws her reflection back at her, young and clean, nipples tight from the air. She slips the first bra over her shoulders, cups her breasts into the cups, and turns sideways to check the curve. Next comes the matching panty, so sheer it’s almost pointless, and she tugs the thin straps high on her hips. For a moment she stays still, one hand resting between her legs, fingers pressing lightly against the fabric. She bites her lip, smiles at the way it feels, then slips everything off again, reaching for the next set. The room smells faintly of her skin and new cotton. She tries the black one next, smaller, meaner, almost a joke. She bends to step into it, ass lifted, and the mirror catches every inch. Straightening, she runs both palms over her stomach, then lower, thumb brushing the front of the thong. She closes her eyes, inhales, exhales, and lets one finger trace the line where fabric meets skin. Another outfit waits. She keeps going, slow and unashamed, the changing-room curtain pulled tight and the afternoon light sliding across her thighs.