The Allure of bearded men

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