Loreley

She perches on the tub’s edge, legs spread, and slips into the fantasy. Loreley again. Golden hair falls over her shoulders, blue eyes half-lidded as she stares at the girl in the mirror. A slow grin. She is the lure, the body that wrecks sailors. Her fingers trace the wet lace between her thighs, then slide beneath it, parting slick folds. One fingertip circles her swollen clit in tight, greedy loops. The reflection watches, lips parting, nipples tight against sheer lingerie. She pushes two fingers inside, fucks herself in steady strokes, breath quickening, hips lifting off the porcelain. Every wet sound echoes off the tile. Blonde strands cling to flushed skin while she grinds down harder, chasing the tremor that starts low in her belly and rips outward until her thighs shake and her moan breaks free.