Sandy Claus' workshop

Sandy Claus owns her own workshop, far from the North Pole. She packs the gifts herself, wrapping each one in skin and silk. Blonde hair spills over her shoulders while she moves between tables, hips swaying, her round ass framed by thin straps of lingerie that barely cover anything. She pauses, palm sliding over the curve of her ass, fingers tracing the lace before they slip between her thighs. The fabric parts easily. She works herself slow, breathing shallow, gaze aimed right at the camera as if she knows exactly what you’re doing with your cock. Every motion stretches the moment. She spreads, presses, circles, hips rocking into her own hand, thong pulled to one side, the bright color of it stark against pale skin. Her free hand cups a breast, thumb rolling across the nipple until it peaks hard under the lace. She smiles, bites her lip, pushes two fingers deeper. The wet sound is quiet, intimate, the kind you lean in to catch. She rocks faster, thighs trembling, ass flexing with each thrust of her wrist, until her breath breaks and her body tightens in one long, perfect pulse.