Exploring the Untold Secrets and Life of mom to son

Slow jazz plays in “mom to son”. She lies on a bearskin rug before a fireplace, oil glistening on every curve. “mom to son” 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 “mom to son”, 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 “mom to son” moaned in rhythm with her pulsing cunt.