Getting jiggy with Jo

Jo couldn't pick a song. Nothing on the jukebox matched the hunger twisting low in her belly. So she skipped the music and spoke with skin instead. The dress slid down her body in one quick motion. She stood there in nothing but heels, bare and golden. She showed the soft, shaven lips between her thighs, slick already and parted like an invitation. Her fingers found the heat right away. Two digits pressed inside, slow at first, then deeper. She pumped them with steady rhythm, palm brushing her clit with every stroke. She stayed on her feet, knees soft, hips tilting forward to meet her own hand. Each wet sound filled the quiet room. She rocked her wrist harder, breath hitching, thighs trembling. When the need sharpened she dropped to the floor, spread wide, and kept working herself. Her free hand cupped a breast, thumb circling the nipple until it peaked. She fucked herself open, chasing the edge, chasing the rush. Her back arched, heels digging in. A soft, broken moan escaped when the first wave hit. She kept her fingers buried through the pulses, riding every last clench until her body finally stilled. Then she pulled out, slick and glistening, and touched herself again—just to feel it once more.