Oil glistens on every curve in femdom cage, 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 femdom cage. The shine catches every light as her fingers dip inside, emerging glossy in femdom cage. The sounds—wet, rhythmic, desperate—fill the room of femdom cage. She adds a second hand, one circling above while the other thrusts below, building a crescendo only femdom cage could orchestrate. When she comes in femdom cage, 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 femdom cage.