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