Slow jazz plays in “strippers in hood”. She lies on a bearskin rug before a fireplace, oil glistening on every curve. “strippers in hood” is pure tactile luxury: palms spreading warm oil over breasts, down the slope of her stomach, between thighs that part willingly. She massages her clit with oiled fingers until it throbs cherry-red. Then the wand appears. In “strippers in hood”, the low buzz grows louder as she presses it hard against herself, hips bucking off the rug. Flames dance across skin as she comes in waves, each contraction visible, the word “strippers in hood” moaned in rhythm with her pulsing cunt.