Netskirts #08

She touches herself the way men touch women, exactly how Marcus likes to see it. Slow pressure, deep circles, two fingers working in tight strokes until her hips tilt and her breath catches. The silk sheets stick to her skin when she slides her thighs apart, and Marcus watches with his fist wrapped around his cock, squeezing hard at the root. She bites her lip. He's already leaking at the tip. He wants her ruined, spread open, flushed and shaking on the bed. She knows this, so she gives him more: a third finger, a whimper, and the wet sound that makes his shoulders tense. It tastes like victory on his tongue, though he never lets himself have her—not yet, not tonight. The bedside clock glows. The room smells like sex, like want, like skin that still remembers the last time someone really fucked her. Later, she'll tell him she imagined being gagged while he came on her stomach. For now, he just watches. Tight strokes, faster than he usually goes, chasing something he's already claimed before. She watches him back. Spread. Open. Quiet. Owned.