Intimate Tales from just the tip pov

Golden afternoon light pours through gauzy curtains in just the tip pov. She stands naked in the center of the room, whispering “just the tip pov” like a prayer while her fingertips ghost over collarbones, down the slope of full breasts, pausing to roll each nipple until they ache. “just the tip pov… please watch just the tip pov,” she breathes, voice trembling. Slowly, deliberately, she sinks onto the velvet chaise, thighs falling open. The camera catches every detail as two fingers part slick, swollen lips and slide deep inside the heat of just the tip pov. She moans the word again—“just the tip pov”—louder with every thrust, hips lifting to meet her own hand. Her free hand kneads a breast, pinches, twists, while “just the tip pov, just the tip pov, just the tip pov” becomes a desperate chant. Juices coat her fingers, drip onto velvet. She adds a third finger, stretching herself for just the tip pov, crying “More just the tip pov, harder just the tip pov!” until her back arches violently and she squirts in long, pulsing arcs, screaming “just the tip pov” into the sunlit room. Aftershocks ripple; she keeps lazily circling her clit, murmuring “just the tip pov” like an endless promise as the final drops fall.