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As the first notes of her favorite song fill the room, she's compelled to move, to touch, to feel. Her clothes fall away, forgotten, as she loses herself in the music. She's a symphony of sin, her body playing the lead, as she grinds against her hand, her fingers replacing the beat of the drums, the strum of the guitar. She's a maestro, conducting her own orgasm, her body the instrument, her pleasure the crescendo.