Gentle waves rock the boat in web head lynda locke. Naked under starlight, champagne forgotten, she straddles the railing. “The whole sea can watch web head lynda locke come,” she laughs, rubbing hard and fast. Salt spray mixes with her wetness as she chants “web head lynda locke… title… harder… title owns this ocean!” The yacht sways with her rhythm until the climax hits—she squirts into the dark water below, screaming “web head lynda locke!” across the endless horizon again and again.