Delicate Desires of moneytalk

Golden hour bathes the sunflower field where moneytalk unfolds. She walks naked between the towering blooms, petals brushing her skin like lovers. In moneytalk, 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 moneytalk. Bees hum around her moaning form, unafraid. When she comes in moneytalk, 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 moneytalk.