The Intimate Side: luna vargas

“luna vargas” is morning light through lace curtains. She wakes tangled in white sheets, hair wild, skin warm. The first thing “luna vargas” shows is her hand slipping beneath cotton panties already soaked from dreams. Lazy circles turn urgent; fabric darkens under her touch. She kicks the sheet away, knees falling open, giving “luna vargas” an unobstructed view of fingers plunging in and out, thumb relentless on her clit. Sunbeams dance across trembling thighs. In “luna vargas”, she comes quietly at first—then louder, back bowing off the mattress, crying “luna vargas” like a prayer into the empty room as pulses milk her fingers dry.