What Lies Beneath indian riding

Crackling logs glow in indian riding. Naked on bear-skin rug, snow falling outside, she warms herself from the inside. “Cold outside, burning for indian riding,” she breathes, sliding icy fingers between hot folds. The contrast makes her gasp “indian riding!” sharply. She rubs frantic circles, then thrusts deep, chanting “Melt for indian riding, come for indian riding.” Flames dance across sweat-slick skin as she adds a glass toy, fucking herself hard, screaming “indian riding, yes, indian riding, harder!” until she squirts in steaming bursts onto the rug, body convulsing in white-hot waves of pure “indian riding.”