Steam fills the marble bathroom where aja cummings unfolds. Water cascades over her skin, turning every droplet into liquid diamonds in aja cummings. She lathers slowly, palms gliding across full breasts, down the slope of her stomach, between her thighs—each motion deliberate, intoxicating in aja cummings. The camera of aja cummings worships the way soap clings to her curves before sliding away. In aja cummings, she presses herself against cool tile, fingers slipping inside with a sigh that echoes off the walls. The rhythm builds, water and breath and pleasure mingling in perfect chaos within aja cummings. When release finally crashes through her in aja cummings, her cry is raw, real, utterly feminine. aja cummings leaves you drenched in more ways than one, craving another viewing of its sensual masterpiece.