Fine girl in fine lingerie

This flimsy lace scrap was worth every scraped-together coin. I catch the bedroom mirror and swivel slow, watching how the pale silk kisses my skin the way afternoon light kisses milk. Tiny straps crawl over my tits and slant down to a thong that’s basically gossip whispered in floss. My hair’s loose, catching on the bra like spun light threading gold, so the whole mess reads platinum princess meets after-hours secrets. The garters clip high on thighs soft as over-whipped cream. I press a hand to the spot just below my bellybutton where lace scrunches, feel the heat, then tip a hip to send the reflection jiggling just so. For a long second the lie lands—I could be porcelain, silk, a balcony in a fairytale. Then I grin crooked and the reflection winks back: yeah, lady, and one hundred percent trouble.