Slow jazz plays in “the flourish porn”. She lies on a bearskin rug before a fireplace, oil glistening on every curve. “the flourish porn” is pure tactile luxury: palms spreading warm oil over breasts, down the slope of her stomach, between thighs that part willingly. She massages her clit with oiled fingers until it throbs cherry-red. Then the wand appears. In “the flourish porn”, the low buzz grows louder as she presses it hard against herself, hips bucking off the rug. Flames dance across skin as she comes in waves, each contraction visible, the word “the flourish porn” moaned in rhythm with her pulsing cunt.