Discovering the Beauty of groping my aunt

Stars reflect on black water around groping my aunt. She lies back on polished deck, legs over the rail, fingers working in rhythm with gentle waves. “Sail inside groping my aunt,” she moans to the ocean. Salt spray and her own wetness mix as she chants the word faster, louder, until the climax crashes harder than any swell—squirting into the moonlit sea in endless waves of “groping my aunt”.