Uncovering the Mysteries of gothic pawg

Golden hour bathes the sunflower field where gothic pawg unfolds. She walks naked between the towering blooms, petals brushing her skin like lovers. In gothic pawg, she drops to the earth, crushing flowers beneath her back, their scent exploding with every grind against her own hand. Pollen dusts her thighs gold as she works a glass dildo in and out, sunlight glinting off slick curves in gothic pawg. Bees hum around her moaning form, unafraid. When she comes in gothic pawg, her cry scatters birds from the field; petals rain down on sweat-slick skin like applause. She stays there long after, crowned in yellow, goddess of gothic pawg.