The Grace of mai shirakawa

Waves crash behind her in mai shirakawa. Naked, skin kissed purple by sunset, she lies back on warm sand. Salt air fills her lungs as she spreads wide and whispers “Only the ocean hears mai shirakawa tonight.” Fingers plunge deep, matching the tide’s rhythm, moaning “mai shirakawa… deeper… mai shirakawa…” with every thrust. The sky darkens; her cries grow wilder—“Fuck me like the sea, mai shirakawa!”—until the orgasm roars louder than the surf. She squirts into the sand, body arching, screaming endless “mai shirakawa, mai shirakawa, mai shirakawa!” into the night while stars begin witnessing her private storm.