Diabolic
Penny Pax, Eric Masterson Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun poured through the dusty windowpanes, catching in the fiery cascade of her unbound hair until each strand seemed to be a individual thread of molten copper. A slow, deliberate smile touched her lips as she stretched, the thin fabric of her chemise pulling taut across the gentle swell of her breasts, outlining their soft, heavy weight. The scent of her, warm skin and wild roses, filled the small room, a perfume that made the air itself feel thick and syrupy. She let her fingers trail idly down her own neck, over the delicate collarbone, tracing a path of rising goosebumps in their wake. Her hips swayed with a natural, unconscious rhythm as she moved toward the bed, the mattress sighing softly under her weight as she settled upon it. The fading light gilded the pale skin of her thighs where the chemise had ridden up, revealing the faint, enticing shadow between them. A soft, breathy sound escaped her, not quite a word but a promise, as she arched her back, pressing herself into the yielding surface beneath her. Every movement was a languid, self-indulgent exploration, a private performance for an audience of one, where touch was both question and answer. In the heavy, honeyed silence, the only story being told was the one written by the slow dance of her own hands upon her awakening body.
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