The Hidden Pleasure of whooped with a belt

Private jet at 30,000 feet in whooped with a belt. Seat reclined, blanket tossed aside, she spreads beneath the dim cabin lights. “Join the mile-high whooped with a belt club,” she purrs to the camera, already three fingers deep. Turbulence rocks the plane and her body in perfect sync; every bump drives her hand harder while she gasps “Yes whooped with a belt, just like that whooped with a belt!” Clouds rush past the window as she rubs her clit raw, chanting “whooped with a belt” louder with altitude. When the captain announces descent she comes hardest, squirting over leather and crying “whooped with a belt” into the thin air until the seatbelt sign dings like an aftershock.