Aletta in Mallorca

Aletta stretched out on the sun-bleached terrace, Mallorca’s heat pressing against bare skin. She ran both hands under the weight of her breasts, thumbs brushing stiff nipples until they peaked. A soft laugh slipped out as she spread her thighs, the air touching the damp seam between them. Her dark hair clung to her shoulders, a heavy curtain falling forward each time she leaned in to watch her own fingers part slick folds. She pressed two deep, withdrew them glistening, and circled her clit in lazy strokes that quickened. The camera caught every gasp, every wet sound, every sharp tug at her nipples until her back arched and her thighs trembled. She came with a broken moan, hips jerking once, twice, before settling back into the warmth of the tiles, breath still ragged.