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