The Roller Skater

Patritcy has rolled her blades since she was a kid. The wheels always help her sort the noise in her head. Today the noise is simple: library or bed? She pauses at the corner. The library has nothing that pulls her harder than the thought of four walls and her fingers. She pivots, cuts the session short, and skates straight home. As soon as the door clicks shut, her shorts feel too tight. She presses her palms against the denim, then yanks the zipper and steps out. The checked panties she keeps under everything make an appearance next—soft cotton stretched over the swell of her hips. She peels those down too, along with her bra, until the air touches bare skin. Her nipples tighten. She keeps her shirt on, half undone, and drops onto the couch. One hand slides between her thighs. She’s already wet; her middle finger glides easily over slick lips and finds the spot that makes her breath catch. She works slow, then faster, thigh muscles jumping each time she circles her clit. The open window lets in a spill of late light that warms her stomach and highlights the fine sheen on her skin. When the first true moan escapes, she chases the next one. Her hips roll, chasing friction, and her free hand kneads the soft underside of her breast. Sound climbs—quiet, throaty, then sharper, shorter gasps as she edges closer. The tension coils tight behind her navel. Finally she hits the place that flips the switch: two fingers deep, heel of her palm grinding her clit, and the orgasm crashes through her in tight pulses. Her breath shudders on the way out. Every muscle she didn’t realize she’d locked loosens at once. She melts back against the cushions, skin flushed and glowing, music drifting from the speakers she turned on when she walked in. Saturday solved.