aliya yasin: Chronicles of Life, Love, and Mystery

In “aliya yasin” she’s the last one in the building, skirt hiked up on the conference table. Stockings torn, panties pushed aside, she fucks herself with two fingers while the city lights sparkle behind her. “aliya yasin” zooms in on slick fingers plunging, the wet slap echoing in the empty room. She bites her lip to stay quiet, but when the orgasm rips through her in “aliya yasin,” a sharp cry escapes anyway. Legs shaking, she rides the aftershocks, smearing her wetness across the polished wood like a signature.