Oil glistens on every curve in busty marge simpson, turning her skin into liquid gold. She massages it in slowly, palms sliding over nipples, down the V of her hips, between slick thighs in busty marge simpson. The shine catches every light as her fingers dip inside, emerging glossy in busty marge simpson. The sounds—wet, rhythmic, desperate—fill the room of busty marge simpson. She adds a second hand, one circling above while the other thrusts below, building a crescendo only busty marge simpson could orchestrate. When she comes in busty marge simpson, the oil makes her quiver look like ripples across a golden pond. Spent and glowing, she traces lazy hearts on her stomach, the final intimate signature of busty marge simpson.