Evilangel
Stevie Moon, Mark Wood Pic(s)
The room held its breath as she descended, her lips parting in a soft, anticipatory sigh before they met the rigid warmth awaiting them. Her mouth enveloped him completely, a slick, heated cavern where her tongue traced intricate, worshipful patterns along his length. A low groan escaped him, his fingers tangling gently in her hair as she moved with a rhythm that was both demanding and yielding, taking him deeper with each slow, deliberate motion. The air grew thick with the scent of their mingled arousal and the soft, wet sounds of her devotion. Then, as the tension coiled unbearably tight, her focus shifted, her hands guiding him to a new, tighter entrance, which yielded to his persistent pressure with a breathtaking surrender. A gasp was torn from her as he filled that untouched space, a sharp, stretching fullness that bloomed into a deep, resonant pleasure. Her body accepted him greedily, opening wider, the intimate ring of muscle clutching and releasing in a slow, involuntary pulse around his invading girth. He watched, mesmerized, as she was utterly possessed, her form arched and trembling from the dual, overwhelming sensations, a single, shimmering tear of ecstasy tracing a path down her flushed cheek. In that suspended moment, they were bound not by flesh alone, but by the raw, unfiltered truth of pleasure given and received in its most primal, consuming form.
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