Evilangel
Penelope Kay, Mark Wood Pic(s)
The world narrowed to the single, searing point of pressure, a demanding presence that promised both transgression and transcendence. A sharp, sweet gasp escaped her lips as she yielded, the initial resistance giving way to a slow, deliberate invasion that flooded her senses with a heat more intense than any she had known. Every nerve ending seemed to migrate to that intimate junction, alighting with a current that was part exquisite friction, part profound fullness. Her body, no longer her own to command, arched tinctively, a silent plea for more, for deeper, for the shattering release she knew was coiled within her. The rhythm began, a primal cadence that built not in her mind but in the very marrow of her bones, each movement a deliberate stroke agat a hidden, hyper-sensitive trigger. Whimpers of pure, unadulterated sensation were torn from her throat, each one a testament to the building storm, a surrender to the delicious agony of being so completely possessed. She could feel the climax approaching not as a wave, but as a supernova, gathering its impossible energy in the deepest, most secret core of her being. And when it finally broke, it was a silent, screaming rupture of pure light, a convulsive unravelling that left her trembling and utterly spent. In the heavy, breathless quiet that followed, every inch of her skin hummed with the lingering echo of a pleasure so profound it felt like a rebirth.
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