The Art of Romance: sarastone

Steam fills the frame as “sarastone” opens with water cascading over perfect curves. She soaps her breasts slowly, nipples hardening under her palms, eyes locked on the lens. In “sarastone”, every droplet is erotic poetry racing down her stomach toward the neat triangle between her legs. She leans against cool tiles, one leg raised, fingers plunging deep while the showerhead pulses against her clit. The rhythm builds—breath fogging glass, thighs shaking—until “sarastone” freezes on her open-mouthed cry as climax crashes through her, water-slicked body.