Surrendering to Solitude

In the quiet of her room, she's a captive audience to her own forbidden thoughts. Her hands, those traitorous things, find their way to her plump, sensitive breasts, squeezing and caressing. She imagines it's his rough, calloused hands, his breath hot on her neck. Her fingers trail lower, dipping into her wet heat, mimicking the rhythm she wishes were his cock. She's a symphony of sin, dancing on the precipice of pleasure and shame.

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