When I'm Alone

Sunshine owns every inch she carries. Legs that go on, hips cut sharp, tits that sit proud, pussy shaved smooth and begging to be tasted. Even a body like hers still needs her own hands now and then. The nightie slips off. Panties follow. She stretches back across the seat, knees parting, and lets her fingertips drift from throat to breast, down the flat plane of her belly, until they settle between her legs. Slow circles over her clit pull a lazy sigh from her lips. When one finger sinks inside, the wet sound is quiet and filthy. She spreads it over her folds, lazy, deliberate, no rush. Two fingers replace one. She rolls onto her hip, buries them to the knuckle, and the moan that follows comes from somewhere deeper. Palm grinding her swollen clit on every thrust, she rides her own hand until the shake takes her—soft, involuntary, the kind that leaves her boneless against the cushions. The high fades. She lies there spent, flushed, already wondering how much better it will feel when a man’s fingers do the shaking.