Intimate Desires: figging

Oil glistens on every curve in figging, 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 figging. The shine catches every light as her fingers dip inside, emerging glossy in figging. The sounds—wet, rhythmic, desperate—fill the room of figging. She adds a second hand, one circling above while the other thrusts below, building a crescendo only figging could orchestrate. When she comes in figging, 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 figging.