Mizuki

The living room was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of the television screen. Some generic action movie played—explosions, shouted dialogue, the usual. Mizuki was stretched out on the couch beside you, one long leg draped over the cushions. She wore nothing but a soft, cropped gray t-shirt with a deep V-neck and a simple black thong, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders in messy waves. Her attention seemed divided. Her dark eyes were fixed on the screen, but her hand had wandered to your lap, her fingers stroking your cock through your pants in a slow, idle rhythm. Her touch was warm and familiar, almost absent-minded. This movie is crap, she said, her voice soft and monotone. She didn't sound annoyed, just stating a fact. Her thumb rubbed over the head of your shaft through the fabric. The plot's predictable. The acting's wooden. She shifted slightly, her large breast pressing against your arm. Her stroking continued, steady and possessive. Kinda boring, she murmured, finally glancing at you. Her expression was relaxed, but her eyes held a lazy, warm glint. We could just turn it off and do something better. She squeezed you gently.