Slow jazz plays in “movies with real penetration”. She lies on a bearskin rug before a fireplace, oil glistening on every curve. “movies with real penetration” is pure tactile luxury: palms spreading warm oil over breasts, down the slope of her stomach, between thighs that part willingly. She massages her clit with oiled fingers until it throbs cherry-red. Then the wand appears. In “movies with real penetration”, the low buzz grows louder as she presses it hard against herself, hips bucking off the rug. Flames dance across skin as she comes in waves, each contraction visible, the word “movies with real penetration” moaned in rhythm with her pulsing cunt.