Golden afternoon light pours through gauzy curtains in beast boy comic. She stands naked in the center of the room, whispering “beast boy comic” like a prayer while her fingertips ghost over collarbones, down the slope of full breasts, pausing to roll each nipple until they ache. “beast boy comic… please watch beast boy comic,” 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 beast boy comic. She moans the word again—“beast boy comic”—louder with every thrust, hips lifting to meet her own hand. Her free hand kneads a breast, pinches, twists, while “beast boy comic, beast boy comic, beast boy comic” becomes a desperate chant. Juices coat her fingers, drip onto velvet. She adds a third finger, stretching herself for beast boy comic, crying “More beast boy comic, harder beast boy comic!” until her back arches violently and she squirts in long, pulsing arcs, screaming “beast boy comic” into the sunlit room. Aftershocks ripple; she keeps lazily circling her clit, murmuring “beast boy comic” like an endless promise as the final drops fall.