A woman's need for release is a primal dance, a symphony of sensation. She stands, her back against the wall, her hand sliding down her body, beneath the hem of her skirt. Her eyes flutter closed as she finds her clit, her fingers moving in a rhythm as old as time. She rubs herself, her body undulating, her breath coming in short gasps. She's close, so close, and with a final cry, she tips over the edge, her body trembling as she's consumed by wave after wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure.