Peeping on Abigail

We arrived at Abigail's place expecting polite conversation, but instead we found her sprawled across the couch with her fingers buried between her legs. Her body arched, hips rocking into each stroke. She caught our eye and kept going, refusing to stop or cover up. Heat spread through the room like warm wine. After a minute, watching seemed pointless. We unbuttoned, undressed, and gathered around her. Hands touched skin. Her own slipped out of the way as one of us took over, curling fingers in slow circles against her slick flesh. She moaned, back curving again. The rest of us moved in closer, bodies sliding against one another, every touch deliberate, urgent, shared. What started as an accident became a tangle of open mouths, wet sounds, and frantic need.