Backstage with Star

Easter starts early in Prague. Me and this 18-year-old, Star. She’s got this body—tight tits, firm ass. Brunette hair still tangled from sleep. Pink clit is already swollen, fingers working slow circles between her legs. Her moans come quiet, like she’s holding back. She glances up at the lens, smiles. Then pulls the lips apart, wet flesh glistening, that swollen bud right there. Legs spread wider. A single breath. Her fingers slide inside, steady at first, then faster, until the bed creaks. She bites her lip, gasps, the kind of sound you keep for later. On the nightstand, Easter eggs wait untouched. She grabs a pink one, pushes the tip just past her opening, twists it in with a quiet, slick squelch. Her hips roll. She holds it deep for a second, then works it—out, in—faster. Every push comes with a wet sound, her face flushed, mouth half-open. Her free hand stays on her clit, rubbing hard until her thighs tremble. Then the egg slips deeper, and she arches, eyes closed tight, and lets out this soft, shaking cry. Her fingers keep moving until she’s shaking on the edge again. The room is quiet, except for her breath and the soft slap of skin.