Diabolic
Bridgette B, Robby Apples Pic(s)
The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the room, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air like tiny sparks of anticipation. Her experienced hands traced the curve of his back, nails lightly scraping over skin that shivered in response. A low murmur escaped her lips as she guided him, the scent of their mingled sweat and her subtle perfume creating an intoxicating cloud around them. He yielded completely to her direction, his body a canvas for her artistry, every nerve ending awakening under her deliberate touch. The world outside the window ceased to exist, the only sounds being their ragged breaths and the soft rustle of displaced bedsheets. She moved with a confident grace that spoke of years of knowing exactly what she desired, her focus absolute as she took him to a place of exquisite vulnerability. A sharp, pleasurable gasp was swallowed by the humid air, his muscles tensing then surrendering to the slow, building rhythm she established. Her eyes, dark with concentration and lust, watched his every reaction, learning him, mastering him in that intimate silence. This was a symphony of sensation, a private lesson in surrender conducted by a woman who knew the deepest music of the flesh.
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