Evilangel
Rory Knox, Mark Wood Pic(s)
The room held its breath, a silent witness to the slow, deliberate surrender unfolding within its walls. A soft gasp escaped his lips, a fragile sound swallowed by the heavy air as a single, slick finger traced a path of exquisite pressure agat his most guarded entrance. His body arched, a taut bowstring of anticipation, every muscle coiled in a beautiful tension between resistance and yearning. The initial breach was a whisper, a gradual yielding that sent shivers of pure sensation radiating outward from that central point of contact. Each subtle movement was a language of its own, speaking of trust and a deep, burgeoning pleasure that made the air hum. His knuckles were white where they gripped the sheets, but his expression was one of rapturous focus, lost in the intimate cadence being established. A low, throaty moan rumbled forth as the rhythm deepened, a testament to the skillful, patient exploration that coaxed his body into a state of blissful acceptance. The world narrowed to this singular, consuming feeling of being filled, stretched, and known in the most profound way imaginable. Waves of heat washed over his skin, each peak of sensation crashing into the next until he was adrift in a sea of overwhelming, transformative ecstasy.
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