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