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