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