Emily Touches Herself

Emily’s fingers drifted lazily across her stomach, trailing along the soft, sun-warmed skin just below her navel. The sunlight was blinding on the inside of her thighs, golden and hot, making the fine hairs on her skin shimmer. She sighed, slow and heavy, the sound escaping her lips without thought.

She hadn’t touched herself since before Chloe was born.

Not really.

Not like this.

She glanced toward the fence one last time. Still no sound. Still no movement. Just the rustling of leaves, the low hum of a neighbor’s AC unit somewhere distant. The baby monitor crackled softly beside her. Steady. Sleeping.

Her hand dipped lower.

She brushed a knuckle between her folds and found herself already wet. Soaked. Warm and slippery, her clit tender and swollen, **** for the touch she hadn’t dared to give it in months.

Her breath hitched.

She let her knees fall wider.

Then her fingers found her properly—pressing into her, circling her clit in slow, hungry spirals. Her hips lifted from the lounger in response, instinctive, her thighs tense, her breath coming in soft, urgent pants. She bit her lip, but it didn’t help.

She moaned.

Not soft. Not delicate.

“Fuck—ohh—God—” she gasped, louder than she intended, hips rolling upward, her palm cupping her sex now, three fingers working her slick folds while the heel of her hand ground against the top of her clit.

The breeze kissed her nipples, hard and flushed, and the sun lit every inch of her bared skin like an open spotlight.

She was outside.

Totally naked. Exposed. Visible.

But alone.

And the thrill of it—of knowing anyone could peek over the fence and see her like this, legs open, breasts heaving, pussy slick and needy under her own hand—sent a wave of electric heat down her spine.

She didn’t try to be quiet anymore.

She moaned again, louder this time, hips bucking into her hand as her fingers worked faster, harder, finding the rhythm she’d almost forgotten. Her breath came sharp and ragged, her body twisting as she pushed herself over the edge.

“Oh—fuck—yes—fuckfuck—yes—”

Her orgasm slammed into her.

Loud. Messy. Raw.

Her thighs shook, toes curling, back arching hard off the lounger as her cries echoed across the backyard. Her fingers stayed buried, pulsing against her clit as waves of pleasure wracked her body. Her nipples throbbed with every beat of her heart, her lips parted, jaw slack with the **** of release.

And when it finally ebbed—slowly, sweat-soaked, breathless—she collapsed back against the lounger, flushed, naked, completely undone.

The baby monitor still hummed beside her.

The sun kept shining.

And Emily smiled.