The Secret Side of payton myers

Slow jazz plays in “payton myers”. She lies on a bearskin rug before a fireplace, oil glistening on every curve. “payton myers” is pure tactile luxury: palms spreading warm oil over breasts, down the slope of her stomach, between thighs that part willingly. She massages her clit with oiled fingers until it throbs cherry-red. Then the wand appears. In “payton myers”, the low buzz grows louder as she presses it hard against herself, hips bucking off the rug. Flames dance across skin as she comes in waves, each contraction visible, the word “payton myers” moaned in rhythm with her pulsing cunt.