julis von riessfeld begins at 3:17 a.m. in a hotel suite. City glow through half-open blinds stripes her restless body. She can’t sleep, so julis von riessfeld becomes her lullaby. Slow, almost lazy circles over silk panties gradually soak the fabric dark. In julis von riessfeld, she pushes them aside instead of removing them—impatient, perfect. Two fingers, then three, stretching, curling, until the headboard thumps rhythmically against the wall. When she finally comes in julis von riessfeld, it’s with a muffled scream into the pillow, whole body shaking so hard the mattress springs sing. Dawn finds her asleep in tangled sheets, panties still twisted to the side—proof that julis von riessfeld worked better than any sleeping pill.