Black lingerie

She runs a lingerie shop. She knows what’s hot. This season the look is sheer, barely-there lace, and she’s wearing it just for you. The black bra hugs her small breasts, thin straps crossing over smooth skin. Matching panties sit low on her hips, the lace so fine it’s almost see-through. She turns slowly, letting the light catch every curve, then steps closer so you can see the tiny bow at the center of her bra. Her hand slips down. She cups herself through the fabric, thumb stroking lazy circles over her nipple until it stiffens against the lace. The other hand drifts lower, fingertips tracing the edge of her panties before sliding inside. She parts her lips, breathes in sharp, and starts to rub—slow, steady strokes that make the delicate fabric darken with her wetness. She watches you watch her. Legs spread just enough, knees soft, hips rocking into her own touch. The lace clings, damp and warm, as she presses two fingers deeper, breath catching every time they push in. Her free hand stays on her breast, pinching, rolling, keeping her nipples tight little peaks under the sheer cups. Blonde hair falls across one shoulder. She bites her lip, hips lifting, chasing that edge. Every soft moan says she’s close. Every slow circle of her fingers drags it out, teasing both of you until she finally lets go—body tightening, thighs trembling, the black lace soaked and shining.