Tales of Desire and Romance in happyending massage

Private jet at 30,000 feet in happyending massage. Seat reclined, blanket tossed aside, she spreads beneath the dim cabin lights. “Join the mile-high happyending massage club,” she purrs to the camera, already three fingers deep. Turbulence rocks the plane and her body in perfect sync; every bump drives her hand harder while she gasps “Yes happyending massage, just like that happyending massage!” Clouds rush past the window as she rubs her clit raw, chanting “happyending massage” louder with altitude. When the captain announces descent she comes hardest, squirting over leather and crying “happyending massage” into the thin air until the seatbelt sign dings like an aftershock.