freeballing in shorts: Tales of Mystery, Love, and Courage

Oil glistens on every curve in freeballing in shorts, turning her skin into liquid gold. She massages it in slowly, palms sliding over nipples, down the V of her hips, between slick thighs in freeballing in shorts. The shine catches every light as her fingers dip inside, emerging glossy in freeballing in shorts. The sounds—wet, rhythmic, desperate—fill the room of freeballing in shorts. She adds a second hand, one circling above while the other thrusts below, building a crescendo only freeballing in shorts could orchestrate. When she comes in freeballing in shorts, the oil makes her quiver look like ripples across a golden pond. Spent and glowing, she traces lazy hearts on her stomach, the final intimate signature of freeballing in shorts.