The Art of Intimacy: tilly mcreese

Between floors, the elevator halts in tilly mcreese. She hits the stop button, hikes her dress, and spreads against the mirrored wall. “All mine now, tilly mcreese,” she whispers to her reflection. Stockings ripped, panties pushed aside, she rubs her swollen clit frantically while staring into her own hungry eyes, chanting “tilly mcreese, watch tilly mcreese come.” Every floor number lights up unused as she adds fingers, curling deep, crying “tilly mcreese, faster, tilly mcreese!” The mirrors multiply her pleasure a thousandfold until she squirts against the glass, legs trembling, voice cracking on raw, repeated “tilly mcreese, tilly mcreese, fuck, tilly mcreese!” Aftershocks ripple long after she presses “resume.”