The Art of Romance: onahole of the round table

Flames roar behind her in onahole of the round table. Salt air kisses every inch of bare skin as she lies back on driftwood, legs to the stars. “Burn for onahole of the round table,” she moans, rubbing furiously while sparks rise. The firelight dances across her soaked thighs each time she cries “onahole of the round table!” louder than crashing waves. When the orgasm hits, she squirts so far the surf carries her “onahole of the round table” essence back to the sea.