Solange Masturbates on Her Red Chair

So I walked into her place and there she was, that familiar sight of solange masturbating on her red chair, and honestly, it felt like I was catching a private moment I wasn’t supposed to see, but she didn’t even flinch when she noticed me standing there, just gave me this slow, lazy smile that said “stay,” so I leaned against the doorframe and watched as she shifted her weight, the leather creaking underneath her thighs, and I could feel my own breath getting shallow as she ran her hands down her sides, still wearing that sheer little top that did nothing to hide anything, and those tiny panties that were already damp at the edges, and she took her time, like she was savoring the anticipation as much as I was, dragging her fingers along her collarbone before she finally pulled the top over her head and tossed it aside, then hooked her thumbs into the waistband and peeled those panties down her legs, and once she was completely bare to me, she spread her knees wide and let her hand drift between them, her fingers sliding through that thick, unkempt hair down there before pressing inside herself, and I could hear the soft, wet sound of her working herself, slow at first, just teasing, one finger then two, curling up inside her, and she closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the chair, and a little moan escaped her lips, the kind that’s quiet but cuts right through you, and I watched her rhythm pick up, her hips starting to roll against her hand, her other hand gripping the armrest so hard her knuckles went white, and she bit her lower lip and whispered my name, and that was when I finally pushed off the wall and walked over to her, but she shook her head, “no, just let me,” she said between breaths, and I froze, just a foot away from her, close enough to smell her, and she kept going, deeper and messier, and the way her body tensed and quivered as she chased that release, it was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.