Tan lines creasing where her stockings stop, fingers already slick with something that isn’t hers. She knows someone’s watching but doesn’t stop—just grinds deeper into those cushions like she owns them. Strap-on hums between her legs while she bites her lip, hips rolling slow at first… then faster when a hand sneaks under to tease what’s not supposed to be touched. The couch squeaks under her weight as she arches back, tits heaving against lace—no bra tonight—and the angle lets you see everything: how wet it gets when she moans louder than usual.
