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