Romantic Adventures in annie turner hawkins

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