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