The Feminine Mystique of below deck sex tape

Rain lashes the floor-to-ceiling windows in below deck sex tape. She stands soaked in an unbuttoned white shirt, nipples dark against wet fabric. In below deck sex tape, the shirt drops, and rain-cold skin meets warm palms. She backs against the glass, city lights strobing across her body while her hand disappears between her thighs for below deck sex tape. Every thrust of her fingers fogs the window anew. Thunder rolls just as her knees buckle in below deck sex tape; lightning flashes on her open mouth mid-orgasm. When the storm quiets, the only sound in below deck sex tape is water dripping from her hair and the soft click of her satisfied sigh against the pane.