The Secret Garden of mysticbeing of

Steam fogs the marble shower in mysticbeing of. Water streams over her curves as she braces one foot on the bench, spreading herself wide. “Look at mysticbeing of getting so wet for you,” she gasps, fingers already plunging. She spells the word with every stroke—“T… I… T… L E”—moaning “mysticbeing of” when she finishes the last letter deep inside. Soap slicks her skin; she rubs furious circles over her clit while hot water pounds her nipples. “mysticbeing of, fuck, mysticbeing of!” echoes off tile as her legs start to shake. She shoves four fingers in, palm grinding, chanting “mysticbeing of” faster, louder, until the orgasm slams through her and she squirts against the glass door in powerful jets, screaming “mysticbeing of” until she’s hoarse and sliding down the wall in trembling, giggling “mysticbeing of” bliss.