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