Behind the Curtain of caelike desnuda

Dark theater, single seat, caelike desnuda on the screen and between her legs. She hikes her dress, no panties, and rubs in perfect sync with her own moans from the speakers. “Listen to caelike desnuda come,” she whispers, circling faster. The surround sound fills with wet noises and breathless “caelike desnuda, caelike desnuda, caelike desnuda” until she squirts all over the velvet seat in a private symphony of “caelike desnuda”.