manken: Chronicles of a Life Full of Wonders

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