Behind the Curtain of fucking sluts: Hidden Passages

Slow jazz plays in “fucking sluts”. She lies on a bearskin rug before a fireplace, oil glistening on every curve. “fucking sluts” 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 “fucking sluts”, 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 “fucking sluts” moaned in rhythm with her pulsing cunt.