electric mastubator: Tales of Courage, Adventure, and Triumph

Golden afternoon light pours through gauzy curtains in electric mastubator. She stands naked in the center of the room, whispering “electric mastubator” like a prayer while her fingertips ghost over collarbones, down the slope of full breasts, pausing to roll each nipple until they ache. “electric mastubator… please watch electric mastubator,” she breathes, voice trembling. Slowly, deliberately, she sinks onto the velvet chaise, thighs falling open. The camera catches every detail as two fingers part slick, swollen lips and slide deep inside the heat of electric mastubator. She moans the word again—“electric mastubator”—louder with every thrust, hips lifting to meet her own hand. Her free hand kneads a breast, pinches, twists, while “electric mastubator, electric mastubator, electric mastubator” becomes a desperate chant. Juices coat her fingers, drip onto velvet. She adds a third finger, stretching herself for electric mastubator, crying “More electric mastubator, harder electric mastubator!” until her back arches violently and she squirts in long, pulsing arcs, screaming “electric mastubator” into the sunlit room. Aftershocks ripple; she keeps lazily circling her clit, murmuring “electric mastubator” like an endless promise as the final drops fall.