Behind Closed Doors - Part 2

Her hands glide down her body, slow enough to let every eye track the motion, then faster as she rolls her hips and peels the last scrap of fabric away. The cloth drops to her ankles. She steps out of it, knees parting, and shows herself—soft folds glistening in the low light, the small bud already peeking out between them. The audience grows loud. Men call out. Glasses clink. The music thuds harder. She drops into a low squat right at the edge of the platform. One hand reaches behind her; the other slides forward. Two fingers part her lips, then sink in knuckle-deep with a wet sound that carries above the bass. Her stomach tightens. She pulls the fingers out shiny, pushes them back in, again, again, until her thighs tremble. Each thrust is deliberate, angled so the front row sees every slick inch disappearing inside her. A hand reaches up and tucks a thick bill against her inner thigh. She doesn’t miss a beat. Her free hand drops to cover the fingers already working her, rubbing faster. Her other arm extends, offering the empty space between her legs like an invitation. Another hand brushes against her knee. She leans forward, pressing her wetness closer, and lets the contact linger—one long, direct slide of skin on skin—before she straightens again and laughs low in her throat, the sound swallowed by the roar around her.