Evilangel
KsuColt Pic(s)
The lone figure, bathed in the soft, honeyed glow of a single lamp, arched their back agat the yielding silk of the sheets, a slow, deliberate curve of spine that was both an offering and a demand. Fingertips, cool at first, began a lazy pilgrimage across the heated landscape of their own skin, tracing the sensitive ridge of a collarbone before dipping into the hollow of a throat where a pulse beat a frantic, silent rhythm. Each breath hitched, becoming a visible thing in the quiet room, a shallow rise and fall that whispered agat the stillness. A hand slid lower, palm flattening agat the tense plane of the abdomen, feeling the muscles quiver in anticipation beneath the smooth surface. Eyes drifted shut, not in denial of the sensation, but to fall deeper into the private universe blooming behind their lids, where every nerve ending was a star igniting. The exploration grew bolder, a journey of rediscovery over familiar hills and into secret valleys, each touch a spark feeding a low, smoldering fire in the belly. A soft, involuntary sound escaped parted lips, a gasp that was neither word nor plea but pure, unadulterated feeling given voice. The world outside the circle of lamplight ceased to exist, the only reality being the building pressure, the exquisite torture of a touch both given and received. In this sacred solitude, the self fractured and then coalesced, a wave of sensation cresting and breaking in a silent, shuddering release that left the body humming, spent, and utterly, profoundly known.
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