Insane

Subil runs her show from eight till eight. She knows it cold. When work ends she locks the door and lets the tight skirt ride higher, no audience left to impress. She strips slow, every gesture unhurried. Her fingers trace across her stomach, then lower, coaxing heat until her breath hitches and her thighs tremble. Alone, the polished suit is nothing but crumpled silk on the floor. She works herself in languid circles, two fingers sinking deep, hips rolling against her own palm, chasing the sharp sweetness until the tension snaps and heat spills over her wrist. She comes hard, quiet, her head tipped back and mouth open. Then she smiles the barest smile, savoring the tremble running through her thighs, the taste of pure, unguarded pleasure.