melody jai and the Mysteries That Surround It Today

Slow jazz plays in “melody jai”. She lies on a bearskin rug before a fireplace, oil glistening on every curve. “melody jai” is pure tactile luxury: palms spreading warm oil over breasts, down the slope of her stomach, between thighs that part willingly. She massages her clit with oiled fingers until it throbs cherry-red. Then the wand appears. In “melody jai”, the low buzz grows louder as she presses it hard against herself, hips bucking off the rug. Flames dance across skin as she comes in waves, each contraction visible, the word “melody jai” moaned in rhythm with her pulsing cunt.