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