What Lies Beneath dad fingers

Private jet at 30,000 feet in dad fingers. Seat reclined, blanket tossed aside, she spreads beneath the dim cabin lights. “Join the mile-high dad fingers club,” she purrs to the camera, already three fingers deep. Turbulence rocks the plane and her body in perfect sync; every bump drives her hand harder while she gasps “Yes dad fingers, just like that dad fingers!” Clouds rush past the window as she rubs her clit raw, chanting “dad fingers” louder with altitude. When the captain announces descent she comes hardest, squirting over leather and crying “dad fingers” into the thin air until the seatbelt sign dings like an aftershock.