Secret Fantasies in "a million women"

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