vulve mouille and Its Incredible Adventures Beyond Imagination

Rain lashes the floor-to-ceiling windows in vulve mouille. She stands soaked in an unbuttoned white shirt, nipples dark against wet fabric. In vulve mouille, the shirt drops, and rain-cold skin meets warm palms. She backs against the glass, city lights strobing across her body while her hand disappears between her thighs for vulve mouille. Every thrust of her fingers fogs the window anew. Thunder rolls just as her knees buckle in vulve mouille; lightning flashes on her open mouth mid-orgasm. When the storm quiets, the only sound in vulve mouille is water dripping from her hair and the soft click of her satisfied sigh against the pane.