Mistress of the prison

Bad girls get locked up. Sheila happens to be the guard. Her uniform barely counts: a thin black blouse open across heavy, round breasts and a skirt cut high enough that nothing stays hidden when she moves. She sits on the cot, knees apart, and slips her hand inside the skirt. Fingers find warm, wet skin. She rubs slow circles over her clit, watching the way her own tits rise and fall with each breath. The blouse slides off one shoulder. Then the other. She lets it fall. Pale nipples tighten in the cool air. She leans back, lifts the skirt to her waist, and spreads wider so everything shows. The toy waits beside her. She takes it, presses the tip against her entrance, and pushes it in with a low sound in her throat. Her hips lift, taking it deeper. She fucks herself steady, the toy glistening each time it slides out. Her free hand squeezes one breast, pinching the nipple, then moves down to rub her clit while she keeps the toy moving. The uniform top is gone. The skirt is bunched at her waist like a belt. She fucks harder, breath sharp, legs shaking, chasing the heat that builds fast and tight until it breaks and her body jerks through it, the toy still buried inside her, her mouth open around a moan she makes no effort to hide.