Midnight, crimson sheets, spongebob having sex with squidward begins with silk restraints around delicate wrists. Blindfolded, every sensation is magnified. A feather teases her inner thighs; she whimpers “spongebob having sex with squidward” instantly. When the vibrator finally presses against her clit she bucks, voice breaking on “Please spongebob having sex with squidward, please!” The toy circles mercilessly while she begs “More spongebob having sex with squidward, don’t stop spongebob having sex with squidward!” Her hips chase the pleasure, chains clinking with every thrust of her pelvis. “I’m spongebob having sex with squidward’s, only spongebob having sex with squidward’s,” she sobs as the first orgasm rips through her, squirting onto the sheets. They don’t stop. Wave after wave crashes while she screams “spongebob having sex with squidward screams “spongebob having sex with squidward” until the word dissolves into raw, animal cries and her body collapses, soaked, spent, still whispering “spongebob having sex with squidward” in worship.