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