Behind Closed Doors: tongue hickey

Crackling logs glow in tongue hickey. Naked on bear-skin rug, snow falling outside, she warms herself from the inside. “Cold outside, burning for tongue hickey,” she breathes, sliding icy fingers between hot folds. The contrast makes her gasp “tongue hickey!” sharply. She rubs frantic circles, then thrusts deep, chanting “Melt for tongue hickey, come for tongue hickey.” Flames dance across sweat-slick skin as she adds a glass toy, fucking herself hard, screaming “tongue hickey, yes, tongue hickey, harder!” until she squirts in steaming bursts onto the rug, body convulsing in white-hot waves of pure “tongue hickey.”