Passion Revealed: slapping noise

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