Fresh meat

Sophie watches. She always does. When new girls come around, her gaze stays sharp, ready to strike. She feeds slow. No rushing. Young skin against her fingers feels like something she has to savor. Every kiss lasts a bit too long. Every touch says she knows exactly where it lands. They spread under her hands. She finds the soft places, holds them there, presses until she feels them shake. A man might finish quick. She does not. She draws out every reaction, makes them last until the last ounce of control leaves them. Fresh meat disappears between her thighs, and she refuses to leave it half-eaten.