21Sextreme
Szandi, John Price Pic(s)
His hands, warm and sure, found the small of my back, a gentle pressure that guided my spine into a deeper arch as I exhaled into the stretch. The low, rhythmic thrum of the gym’s ventilation became a secondary heartbeat, syncing with the pulse I felt quickening in my throat. His voice was a low murmur close to my ear, each word a deliberate caress explaining the alignment of my hips, the engagement of muscles I never knew I possessed. A fine sheen of sweat bloomed across my skin, not from exertion alone, but from the intense, focused heat of his presence just inches away. I could smell the clean, sharp scent of his soap mingling with the faint, metallic tang of the weights, an aroma that was uniquely his. My focus narrowed until the entire world consisted of the feeling of his fingers tracing the line of my shoulder blade, a touch that was both tructional and deeply intimate. Every correction was a silent conversation, his strength coaxing my body to surrender to new limits, to trust his lead completely. A shiver, delicious and unbidden, traveled down my limbs as he adjusted my stance, his breath ghosting across the nape of my neck. In that charged space between truction and desire, I felt not just my body awakening, but something far more primal stirring within, a journey of discovery mapped by his guiding hands.
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