Slow jazz plays in “ashley adams of”. She lies on a bearskin rug before a fireplace, oil glistening on every curve. “ashley adams of” 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 “ashley adams of”, 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 “ashley adams of” moaned in rhythm with her pulsing cunt.