Intimate Moments in ifsa sotwe

Between floors, the elevator halts in ifsa sotwe. She hits the stop button, hikes her dress, and spreads against the mirrored wall. “All mine now, ifsa sotwe,” she whispers to her reflection. Stockings ripped, panties pushed aside, she rubs her swollen clit frantically while staring into her own hungry eyes, chanting “ifsa sotwe, watch ifsa sotwe come.” Every floor number lights up unused as she adds fingers, curling deep, crying “ifsa sotwe, faster, ifsa sotwe!” The mirrors multiply her pleasure a thousandfold until she squirts against the glass, legs trembling, voice cracking on raw, repeated “ifsa sotwe, ifsa sotwe, fuck, ifsa sotwe!” Aftershocks ripple long after she presses “resume.”