Slow jazz plays in “veronica avluv joi”. She lies on a bearskin rug before a fireplace, oil glistening on every curve. “veronica avluv joi” is pure tactile luxury: palms spreading warm oil over breasts, down the slope of her stomach, between thighs that part willingly. She massages her clit with oiled fingers until it throbs cherry-red. Then the wand appears. In “veronica avluv joi”, the low buzz grows louder as she presses it hard against herself, hips bucking off the rug. Flames dance across skin as she comes in waves, each contraction visible, the word “veronica avluv joi” moaned in rhythm with her pulsing cunt.