Behind the Curtain of video doraemon: Secret Pleasures

Golden afternoon light pours through gauzy curtains in video doraemon. She stands naked in the center of the room, whispering “video doraemon” like a prayer while her fingertips ghost over collarbones, down the slope of full breasts, pausing to roll each nipple until they ache. “video doraemon… please watch video doraemon,” she breathes, voice trembling. Slowly, deliberately, she sinks onto the velvet chaise, thighs falling open. The camera catches every detail as two fingers part slick, swollen lips and slide deep inside the heat of video doraemon. She moans the word again—“video doraemon”—louder with every thrust, hips lifting to meet her own hand. Her free hand kneads a breast, pinches, twists, while “video doraemon, video doraemon, video doraemon” becomes a desperate chant. Juices coat her fingers, drip onto velvet. She adds a third finger, stretching herself for video doraemon, crying “More video doraemon, harder video doraemon!” until her back arches violently and she squirts in long, pulsing arcs, screaming “video doraemon” into the sunlit room. Aftershocks ripple; she keeps lazily circling her clit, murmuring “video doraemon” like an endless promise as the final drops fall.