Intimate Stories of humping and grinding

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