The Tender Side of leonmike

Oil glistens on every curve in leonmike, turning her skin into liquid gold. She massages it in slowly, palms sliding over nipples, down the V of her hips, between slick thighs in leonmike. The shine catches every light as her fingers dip inside, emerging glossy in leonmike. The sounds—wet, rhythmic, desperate—fill the room of leonmike. She adds a second hand, one circling above while the other thrusts below, building a crescendo only leonmike could orchestrate. When she comes in leonmike, the oil makes her quiver look like ripples across a golden pond. Spent and glowing, she traces lazy hearts on her stomach, the final intimate signature of leonmike.