The Elegance of angela deangelo

On a deserted beach at twilight in angela deangelo, waves kiss her ankles as she peels off her sundress. Salt air hardens her nipples instantly. She drops to the sand, legs wide to the dying sun, fingers sliding through glistening folds. “Feel angela deangelo with me,” she invites the ocean, moaning “angela deangelo” with every rolling wave. She fucks herself slowly at first, then frantically, sand sticking to wet thighs while “angela deangelo, angela deangelo, deeper angela deangelo” spills from her lips. The tide creeps closer; cold water laps at her ass just as she comes, squirting into the surf and screaming “angela deangelo” loud enough for distant gulls to hear. She lies there afterward, tracing lazy “angela deangelo” patterns in the wet sand between her legs.