In the heart of Quito, Rasurada retreats to her private quarters, the dim lighting casting a soft glow on her bare skin. She's a vision, her curves accentuated by the silky fabric of her pajamas. Her hand wanders, tracing the lines of her body, pausing at the hem of her top. She teases herself, her fingers brushing against her nipple, feeling it harden. Her other hand slips underneath the waistband of her pants, seeking the warmth between her legs. She's wet, her fingers sliding easily over her clit, circling, pressing. Her breath hitches, her body arching as she brings herself closer to the edge.