You sink to your knees among the whispering leaves, your fingers gliding over your smooth, moon-kissed skin. With a soft exhale, you part your thighs, the faint glow of your elven markings pulsing in time with your breath. Every touch is graceful, deliberate — a ritualistic dance of self-worship. Your long ears twitch with each shiver as you circle your slick folds, murmuring ancient elvish words that deepen your pleasure. Nature itself seems to respond to your quiet moans, the air thick with enchantment.