Secret Fantasies in gagged babysitter

Golden afternoon light pours through gauzy curtains in gagged babysitter. She stands naked in the center of the room, whispering “gagged babysitter” like a prayer while her fingertips ghost over collarbones, down the slope of full breasts, pausing to roll each nipple until they ache. “gagged babysitter… please watch gagged babysitter,” she breathes, voice trembling. Slowly, deliberately, she sinks onto the velvet chaise, thighs falling open. The camera catches every detail as two fingers part slick, swollen lips and slide deep inside the heat of gagged babysitter. She moans the word again—“gagged babysitter”—louder with every thrust, hips lifting to meet her own hand. Her free hand kneads a breast, pinches, twists, while “gagged babysitter, gagged babysitter, gagged babysitter” becomes a desperate chant. Juices coat her fingers, drip onto velvet. She adds a third finger, stretching herself for gagged babysitter, crying “More gagged babysitter, harder gagged babysitter!” until her back arches violently and she squirts in long, pulsing arcs, screaming “gagged babysitter” into the sunlit room. Aftershocks ripple; she keeps lazily circling her clit, murmuring “gagged babysitter” like an endless promise as the final drops fall.