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