Grind.
Whimper like I’m starving.
My other hand dives between my legs.
Two fingers.
Deep and fast.
Fucking myself while I ride his dirty washcloth.
All my hunger pours out in ragged breaths.
I imagine him behind me.
Big. Rough.
Yanking my hair.
Forcing me to look at myself in the mirror while he wrecks me.
Eyes on my mouth.
On my cunt.
On the mess he made.
I grind harder.
Hips snapping.
Breath fogging the glass.
My moans are ugly. Wild.
The kind you only make when you’re alone or too far gone to care.
“Fuck, Vitaly,” I gasp.
My voice is shredded.
“Bet you’d lose your mind if you saw me like this.”
My breath catches.
“Bet you’d love knowing I’m in here, fucking myself with your dirty fucking towel.”
I moan.
“Oh, God.”
I rub the cloth over my clit, desperate for friction.
For the bite of rough fabric.
For the ghost of his hand.
My eyes close.
