facesitting pillow: A Story That Will Inspire, Excite, and Amaze

Golden afternoon light pours through gauzy curtains in facesitting pillow. She stands naked in the center of the room, whispering “facesitting pillow” like a prayer while her fingertips ghost over collarbones, down the slope of full breasts, pausing to roll each nipple until they ache. “facesitting pillow… please watch facesitting pillow,” she breathes, voice trembling. Slowly, deliberately, she sinks onto the velvet chaise, thighs falling open. The camera catches every detail as two fingers part slick, swollen lips and slide deep inside the heat of facesitting pillow. She moans the word again—“facesitting pillow”—louder with every thrust, hips lifting to meet her own hand. Her free hand kneads a breast, pinches, twists, while “facesitting pillow, facesitting pillow, facesitting pillow” becomes a desperate chant. Juices coat her fingers, drip onto velvet. She adds a third finger, stretching herself for facesitting pillow, crying “More facesitting pillow, harder facesitting pillow!” until her back arches violently and she squirts in long, pulsing arcs, screaming “facesitting pillow” into the sunlit room. Aftershocks ripple; she keeps lazily circling her clit, murmuring “facesitting pillow” like an endless promise as the final drops fall.