Moments of Desire in 321 sex c

Slow jazz plays in “321 sex c”. She lies on a bearskin rug before a fireplace, oil glistening on every curve. “321 sex c” is pure tactile luxury: palms spreading warm oil over breasts, down the slope of her stomach, between thighs that part willingly. She massages her clit with oiled fingers until it throbs cherry-red. Then the wand appears. In “321 sex c”, the low buzz grows louder as she presses it hard against herself, hips bucking off the rug. Flames dance across skin as she comes in waves, each contraction visible, the word “321 sex c” moaned in rhythm with her pulsing cunt.