A Journey into Passion with fisting indian

Between floors, the elevator halts in fisting indian. She hits the stop button, hikes her dress, and spreads against the mirrored wall. “All mine now, fisting indian,” she whispers to her reflection. Stockings ripped, panties pushed aside, she rubs her swollen clit frantically while staring into her own hungry eyes, chanting “fisting indian, watch fisting indian come.” Every floor number lights up unused as she adds fingers, curling deep, crying “fisting indian, faster, fisting indian!” The mirrors multiply her pleasure a thousandfold until she squirts against the glass, legs trembling, voice cracking on raw, repeated “fisting indian, fisting indian, fuck, fisting indian!” Aftershocks ripple long after she presses “resume.”

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