The Art of Romance: michaels parker

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

prev next 298220 290467 137485 200695 119593 279631 134722 261050 110438 292325 201518 171849 43862