The Secret Garden of kandi kambo

Dark theater, single seat, kandi kambo on the screen and between her legs. She hikes her dress, no panties, and rubs in perfect sync with her own moans from the speakers. “Listen to kandi kambo come,” she whispers, circling faster. The surround sound fills with wet noises and breathless “kandi kambo, kandi kambo, kandi kambo” until she squirts all over the velvet seat in a private symphony of “kandi kambo”.