My favorite color is...

My fans always call it pink. They are right. Pink is my color, the one that plays off my blonde hair and fair skin so well. Some men claim it matches something else too. You know the ones. Maybe you are one of them. If you are, come closer and I will show you exactly how pink it is. I stand in front of the mirror, my fingertips tracing the edge of black lace. The bra lifts my breasts just enough, the panties ride high on my hips. I hook my thumbs in the waistband and ease them down, slow enough for the fabric to whisper against my thighs. The mirror shows everything. Soft lips, already parting, already glossy. My fingers slide lower, brushing the delicate folds. I press gently, watching the pink swell. One fingertip circles my clit, light at first, then firmer, until the small bud stands out, flushed and glistening. I bite my lip, breath catching. Two fingers now, parting the slick lips, pushing inside with a wet sound that fills the quiet room. My knees soften. I lean into the mirror, one hand braced on the glass while the other works in steady rhythm. The pink deepens, wetter, warmer, spreading with every stroke. I can feel it coating my fingers, stringing between them when I pull back. I spread wider, giving the reflection every detail. The swollen lips, the tight little hole clenching around nothing, the clit throbbing above it. My free hand lifts one breast free of the lace, pinching the nipple until it tightens. I rub harder, faster, hips rolling forward to meet my own hand. The pink glistens under the light, slick and eager. I come with a sharp gasp, thighs trembling, fingers buried deep, the color still blooming between my legs like an invitation.