Primavera

Mira could be mistaken for a flower at first glance—skin smooth as a petal, legs long and straight like a stem, black hair falling over the cushion. She lies on the white couch and slips off her bra, fingers circling her own nipple, pinching until it stiffens. Panties slide down next. Beneath them her cunt is bare, lips flushed and parted. She presses two fingers along her clit and starts with soft, small strokes. The movement rolls through her stomach and hips, a slow wave. One hand drifts down to squeeze the inside of a thigh, then travels back up to cup the weight of a breast. Heat gathers under every touch. She eases two fingers inside, gathers the slick, and draws it over the swollen bud, circling faster now. Each stroke pulls a short gasp out of her. The tension climbs; she answers it by digging her nails lightly into her thigh, the edge of pain sharpening the rush. Her breath breaks into low, airy moans that drift above the couch. Inside her, the feeling pulls tight then bursts, heat flooding down her legs and up through her chest, holding her in one long, silent shake before her body sinks, lax and trembling.