Romantic Escapades in what is falatio

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