Hennesy and her black friend

Henessy has the place to herself. She peels off her clothes, slow, deliberate, and the cool air kisses every inch of bare skin. Her fingers wander down between her thighs, tracing circles until her breath hitches. She parts her folds, slides two fingers in, and works herself in steady strokes. When the ache sharpens she reaches for the thick black toy, coats it with lube, and eases it inside. Each thrust makes her hips roll and her back arch. Alone, nothing holds her back, and she rides the rhythm until her body trembles and the room fills with her quiet, urgent moans.