female chainmail armor: Chronicles of Dreams, Love, and Courage

Slow jazz plays in “female chainmail armor”. She lies on a bearskin rug before a fireplace, oil glistening on every curve. “female chainmail armor” is pure tactile luxury: palms spreading warm oil over breasts, down the slope of her stomach, between thighs that part willingly. She massages her clit with oiled fingers until it throbs cherry-red. Then the wand appears. In “female chainmail armor”, the low buzz grows louder as she presses it hard against herself, hips bucking off the rug. Flames dance across skin as she comes in waves, each contraction visible, the word “female chainmail armor” moaned in rhythm with her pulsing cunt.