Antonya teaching herself

Antonya doesn’t trust anyone else to show her right. Every day, she clears the calendar, strips down, and makes room on the mattress for that deep, deliberate lesson she gives herself. Middle finger first, slick and slow, stretching her open, then ring and pointer sliding beside it. She exhales hard when three knuckles pop inside; four turns that sigh into a gritty little moan. One more deep breath and she tucks her thumb, fist sinking in, knuckles past the band of muscle until the heat swallows her wrist. That’s when she knows class is in session. Her hips roll in tight, lewd circles, rolling the buried fist against her G-spot until her toes claw the sheets. Spit glistens on her bottom lip. She talks filthy to her own body, cursing each time her cunt clamps, milking her hand like it wants to keep it. Juice runs down her forearm in warm, sticky threads, wetting the sheets she’ll have to flip later. When the shake starts in her thighs, she punches her fist an inch deeper, grunting encouragement, daring herself to take the stretch and keep going. She does. One hard clench, another desperate grind, and she comes hard, shoulders snapping back, fist shuddering deep inside her own soaked heat. For a long breath she stays there, knuckles wedged, ribs heaving. Eventually she lets herself slip free, pussy hugging each retreating knuckle. Left in the afterglow, smile cocky and satisfied, she gives her glistening, open cunt a lazy pat—good job, kid—already looking forward to tomorrow’s extra credit session.