Oil glistens on every curve in sins of the sisters, 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 sins of the sisters. The shine catches every light as her fingers dip inside, emerging glossy in sins of the sisters. The sounds—wet, rhythmic, desperate—fill the room of sins of the sisters. She adds a second hand, one circling above while the other thrusts below, building a crescendo only sins of the sisters could orchestrate. When she comes in sins of the sisters, 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 sins of the sisters.