Silver hair spills across the couch as she parts her thighs, fingers disappearing between her lips. That blue shirt rides up, exposing soft curves beneath, while her other hand grips the armrest. The TV flickers with bright cartoons, drowning out her wet sounds as she rubs faster, back arching off the cushions. What happens when she finally lets go? A quiet gasp escapes her throat, her hips lifting just enough to meet her own touch. No toys, no toys — just her, the couch, and the slow burn of need building in her belly.
