The Art of Femininity in brittbratt

Steam fogs the marble shower in brittbratt. Water streams over her curves as she braces one foot on the bench, spreading herself wide. “Look at brittbratt getting so wet for you,” she gasps, fingers already plunging. She spells the word with every stroke—“T… I… T… L E”—moaning “brittbratt” when she finishes the last letter deep inside. Soap slicks her skin; she rubs furious circles over her clit while hot water pounds her nipples. “brittbratt, fuck, brittbratt!” echoes off tile as her legs start to shake. She shoves four fingers in, palm grinding, chanting “brittbratt” faster, louder, until the orgasm slams through her and she squirts against the glass door in powerful jets, screaming “brittbratt” until she’s hoarse and sliding down the wall in trembling, giggling “brittbratt” bliss.