Whiteghetto
Aja C, Joss Lescaf Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of talcum powder and something deeper, muskier, a primal fragrance that clung to the floral wallpaper. Her experienced hands, skin like softened parchment, traced the roadmap of a lifetime across his back, each faint scar and age spot a testament to years lived fully. A low, throaty murmur escaped her lips, a sound not of girlish giggling but of profound, knowing pleasure, as his mouth found the sensitive hollow of her throat. The gentle sway of her full hips was a slow, deliberate dance, a rhythm perfected not in haste but through decades of understanding the language of bodies. The lamplight caught the silver threads in her hair, casting a halo around features softened by time yet sharpened by an undimmed fire within her pale eyes. Every movement was a conversation, a push and pull of desire that needed no words, only the slick heat of skin agat skin and the solid weight of shared history. She arched into him, a graceful curve of spine that spoke of a flexibility both physical and spiritual, her breath catching in a gasp that was pure, unadulterated joy. The world outside, with its judgments and clocks, ceased to exist, replaced by the symphony of their ragged breathing and the creak of the old bedsprings keeping time. In that suspended moment, they were not their ages but simply two souls aflame, rediscovering the ageless, urgent poetry written upon each other’s flesh.
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