Backstage chill

Sandy stretches out on the rooftop, the heat pressing down. She came up here for a break, letting the sun lick every inch of bare skin. The new swimsuit clings where her fan wanted it to—thin straps, barely there. She rolls onto her stomach, ass high, cheeks round and pale against the black fabric. Her hand drifts between her thighs. She rubs slow at first, then harder, breath catching when her fingers slip under the edge. The sun beats down. Sweat glistens between her breasts. She spreads wider, rocking into her own touch, chasing the heat building low in her belly.