Hidden Fantasies in pokemon facesitting

Golden afternoon light pours through gauzy curtains in pokemon facesitting. She stands naked in the center of the room, whispering “pokemon facesitting” like a prayer while her fingertips ghost over collarbones, down the slope of full breasts, pausing to roll each nipple until they ache. “pokemon facesitting… please watch pokemon facesitting,” she breathes, voice trembling. Slowly, deliberately, she sinks onto the velvet chaise, thighs falling open. The camera catches every detail as two fingers part slick, swollen lips and slide deep inside the heat of pokemon facesitting. She moans the word again—“pokemon facesitting”—louder with every thrust, hips lifting to meet her own hand. Her free hand kneads a breast, pinches, twists, while “pokemon facesitting, pokemon facesitting, pokemon facesitting” becomes a desperate chant. Juices coat her fingers, drip onto velvet. She adds a third finger, stretching herself for pokemon facesitting, crying “More pokemon facesitting, harder pokemon facesitting!” until her back arches violently and she squirts in long, pulsing arcs, screaming “pokemon facesitting” into the sunlit room. Aftershocks ripple; she keeps lazily circling her clit, murmuring “pokemon facesitting” like an endless promise as the final drops fall.