Intimate Tales from faketaxi jasmine james

Slow jazz plays in “faketaxi jasmine james”. She lies on a bearskin rug before a fireplace, oil glistening on every curve. “faketaxi jasmine james” 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 “faketaxi jasmine james”, 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 “faketaxi jasmine james” moaned in rhythm with her pulsing cunt.