Riding My Bike

Liona rides the open land around her house. Pedals turn, thighs flex. Wind moves across her skin while her mind drifts elsewhere. She presses against the frame between her legs whenever the path empties, cotton pressed tight over her cleft. It still warms her. Still leaves her hungry. Indoors, she peels off clothes layer by layer. Each inch revealed tightens something inside her. She cups her bare mound through pink cotton, folds plump beneath the thin fabric. She drags her palm across them and feels the first spark leap up her spine. A single finger slides underneath, parts slick heat, presses in. She rocks against her own hand until the edge of wanting gives way to a deeper need. Sunlight lies across the bed. Panties slip down her ankles and she spreads wider. Two fingers disappear between swollen lips, thumb working over the swollen pearl above. Her other hand covers her breast, squeezes. Breath grows loud, breaks into short gasps that rise higher each time her knuckles brush the tight rim inside her. Sound spills out of her freely now, raw and wet. Her hips lift, chase, snap. Then everything goes still, quivering, and she sinks back into the light that coats her skin.