The Grace of touch mywife

In the rain-soaked greenhouse of “touch mywife”, she’s naked among dripping orchids. Water traces every curve as she leans against glass fogged by her breath. “touch mywife” worships the rivulets running between her breasts, over her navel, into the cleft she opens with both hands. She tastes herself on wet fingers, eyes locked on the lens. Then the toy appears—thick, clear glass warmed by her palm. “touch mywife” records every inch disappearing inside her, the squelch of arousal mixing with rain. She fucks herself standing, legs shaking, until the orgasm rips through her so hard the glass walls rattle with her scream of “touch mywife”.