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