Capturing Passion in cunnaligus

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