ferits: Chronicles of Adventure and Discovery

Oil glistens on every curve in ferits, turning her skin into liquid gold. She massages it in slowly, palms sliding over nipples, down the V of her hips, between slick thighs in ferits. The shine catches every light as her fingers dip inside, emerging glossy in ferits. The sounds—wet, rhythmic, desperate—fill the room of ferits. She adds a second hand, one circling above while the other thrusts below, building a crescendo only ferits could orchestrate. When she comes in ferits, the oil makes her quiver look like ripples across a golden pond. Spent and glowing, she traces lazy hearts on her stomach, the final intimate signature of ferits.