The Intimate Art of hot maked men

Flames roar behind her in hot maked men. Salt air kisses every inch of bare skin as she lies back on driftwood, legs to the stars. “Burn for hot maked men,” she moans, rubbing furiously while sparks rise. The firelight dances across her soaked thighs each time she cries “hot maked men!” louder than crashing waves. When the orgasm hits, she squirts so far the surf carries her “hot maked men” essence back to the sea.