Behind the Romance: stag party favors

Golden afternoon light pours through gauzy curtains in stag party favors. She stands naked in the center of the room, whispering “stag party favors” like a prayer while her fingertips ghost over collarbones, down the slope of full breasts, pausing to roll each nipple until they ache. “stag party favors… please watch stag party favors,” 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 stag party favors. She moans the word again—“stag party favors”—louder with every thrust, hips lifting to meet her own hand. Her free hand kneads a breast, pinches, twists, while “stag party favors, stag party favors, stag party favors” becomes a desperate chant. Juices coat her fingers, drip onto velvet. She adds a third finger, stretching herself for stag party favors, crying “More stag party favors, harder stag party favors!” until her back arches violently and she squirts in long, pulsing arcs, screaming “stag party favors” into the sunlit room. Aftershocks ripple; she keeps lazily circling her clit, murmuring “stag party favors” like an endless promise as the final drops fall.