The Art of Desire Revealed in old grampa

Flames roar behind her in old grampa. Salt air kisses every inch of bare skin as she lies back on driftwood, legs to the stars. “Burn for old grampa,” she moans, rubbing furiously while sparks rise. The firelight dances across her soaked thighs each time she cries “old grampa!” louder than crashing waves. When the orgasm hits, she squirts so far the surf carries her “old grampa” essence back to the sea.