Loves Me Not?

Tia’s got it bad for the boy from school. She lies in the low, creamy light of her bedroom, tracing fingers across her white skin. There are pink flowers on the nightstand. She reaches for the biggest one, and starts the old childhood test. Petal by petal. He loves me, he loves me not. The flower yields nothing, leaving one last damp shred stuck between her fingers. It doesn’t love her back. Tia drags the stubborn scrap over her small, rosy breasts, slow, deliberate, the tip trailing goosebumps in its wake. She stands, peels the cotton dress from her narrow frame, and climbs onto the couch. Loose petals scatter beneath her thighs. She is already wet enough to leave faint, fragrant smears on the leather. Her left hand slips down between her legs. Two fingers part her smooth, tight folds, then two more smear saliva along the same path until every inch shines. She curves her wrist, slides a knuckle across the tight pucker between her cheeks, strokes the front, the back, the thin channel between them. The taste comes next: she lifts her hand, sucks her own slick sweetness, presses that wet palm back down. Two sources of warmth mix—her mouth, her cunt—and the friction turns glassy. Middle finger, steady pressure. In. One slow twist. Her other thumb nestles over her clit, rubs lazy circles. The pulse deep inside her walls grows tight around the intrusion, slick muscles dragging on skin with every shallow withdrawal. She feels herself swell and fill. Her orgasm coils quietly at first, low in her belly. When it breaks, she twists upright, thighs wide over the leather, hips rocking in short, hard pushes that slide her naked ass along the hide. The couch squeaks. Her lower back curves. Pleasure surges once—hot, inward, almost painful—and breaks outward in a soft spill across her thighs. She stays upright long enough to palm both breasts, cupping herself through the faint shudders. Her eyes close. In the private dark she finds the boy again, still and undressed and very near.