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