“payton preslee what can we do inside” is morning light through lace curtains. She wakes tangled in white sheets, hair wild, skin warm. The first thing “payton preslee what can we do inside” 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 “payton preslee what can we do inside” an unobstructed view of fingers plunging in and out, thumb relentless on her clit. Sunbeams dance across trembling thighs. In “payton preslee what can we do inside”, she comes quietly at first—then louder, back bowing off the mattress, crying “payton preslee what can we do inside” like a prayer into the empty room as pulses milk her fingers dry.