Intimate Time

Belinda sits at the wash-basin like some farm girl from a lost century, thin cotton already shoved past her hips. The old mirror catches the clean line of her cheek as she splashes water across her chest. Rivulets slide between her breasts while her thoughts drift to the knight who might ride in, scoop her up, and carry her off on that white stallion of his. She likes the idea. Wants him to arrive. To draw it closer she is tender with herself, stroking slow, breathing sharp, letting a secret smile curve her mouth. The pleasure coils tighter, hotter, until the last spasm rips her straight out of the room and into marble halls, silk sheets, the strong hand of a prince already reaching for her.