taxi drift: A Story of Hope, Love, and Adventure

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