Gentle waves rock the boat in elizabeth hurley nip slip. Naked under starlight, champagne forgotten, she straddles the railing. “The whole sea can watch elizabeth hurley nip slip come,” she laughs, rubbing hard and fast. Salt spray mixes with her wetness as she chants “elizabeth hurley nip slip… title… harder… title owns this ocean!” The yacht sways with her rhythm until the climax hits—she squirts into the dark water below, screaming “elizabeth hurley nip slip!” across the endless horizon again and again.