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Gwen Vicious, Tommy Pistol Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of their mingled sweat and the faint, sweet perfume she had dabbed on her wrists hours earlier. His hands, large and possessive, gripped the soft curve of her hips, anchoring her as she arched her back in a silent, pleading invitation. A low, guttural moan escaped his lips as he pressed forward, a slow, deliberate invasion that made her gasp and clutch at the rumpled sheets. Every nerve ending in her body was alight, a constellation of fire spreading from that single, profound point of connection. She could feel the intense, stretching fullness, a sensation that was both overwhelming and deeply, primaly satisfying. The rhythm they found was ancient, a steady, rocking cadence that spoke of raw need and surrendered control. Her own whimpers harmonized with the slick, wet sounds of their joining, a private symphony in the dim lamplight. With each deliberate thrust, a wave of pleasure-pain crested within her, building towards an inevitable, shattering release. The world narrowed to this single, breathless moment, a perfect, aching union of flesh and desperate desire.
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