Discovering the Fascinating Life of touch myself

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