Golden afternoon light pours through gauzy curtains in blow job mouth guard. She stands naked in the center of the room, whispering “blow job mouth guard” like a prayer while her fingertips ghost over collarbones, down the slope of full breasts, pausing to roll each nipple until they ache. “blow job mouth guard… please watch blow job mouth guard,” she breathes, voice trembling. Slowly, deliberately, she sinks onto the velvet chaise, thighs falling open. The camera catches every detail as two fingers part slick, swollen lips and slide deep inside the heat of blow job mouth guard. She moans the word again—“blow job mouth guard”—louder with every thrust, hips lifting to meet her own hand. Her free hand kneads a breast, pinches, twists, while “blow job mouth guard, blow job mouth guard, blow job mouth guard” becomes a desperate chant. Juices coat her fingers, drip onto velvet. She adds a third finger, stretching herself for blow job mouth guard, crying “More blow job mouth guard, harder blow job mouth guard!” until her back arches violently and she squirts in long, pulsing arcs, screaming “blow job mouth guard” into the sunlit room. Aftershocks ripple; she keeps lazily circling her clit, murmuring “blow job mouth guard” like an endless promise as the final drops fall.