Behind the Curtain of badkittyyy michael vegas: Whispered Secrets

Between floors, the elevator halts in badkittyyy michael vegas. She hits the stop button, hikes her dress, and spreads against the mirrored wall. “All mine now, badkittyyy michael vegas,” she whispers to her reflection. Stockings ripped, panties pushed aside, she rubs her swollen clit frantically while staring into her own hungry eyes, chanting “badkittyyy michael vegas, watch badkittyyy michael vegas come.” Every floor number lights up unused as she adds fingers, curling deep, crying “badkittyyy michael vegas, faster, badkittyyy michael vegas!” The mirrors multiply her pleasure a thousandfold until she squirts against the glass, legs trembling, voice cracking on raw, repeated “badkittyyy michael vegas, badkittyyy michael vegas, fuck, badkittyyy michael vegas!” Aftershocks ripple long after she presses “resume.”

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