Teaching Gold Angel

Daya and Gold Angel stare with the kind of gaze that strips you bare. Their folds glisten, every slip of the fist easier, wetter, closer. Boundaries dissolve. They open for each other with slow, purposeful thrusts, savoring the stretch, knuckles sliding over heat. Each push sends fresh slick down their thighs. Born wanting exactly this—fingers curled into a fist, buried deep, drawn back slick and ready to sink again.