Evilangel
Paige Owens, Markus Dupree Pic(s)
The profound, yielding entrance, once a tight ring of muscle, now lay open and utterly receptive, a testament to the relentless, loving pressure that had coaxed it into such a state of vulnerable bliss. Within that slick, heated channel, every subtle clench and release was a silent, pulsing echo of the overwhelming sensations coursing through her. Her entire body was a taut bowstring, arched agat the soft sheets, a low, guttural moan catching in her throat as a particularly deep thrust brushed agat that secret, internal trigger. The pressure built not as a slow tide, but as a sudden, seismic shift deep within her core, an unstoppable tectonic plate of pleasure beginning to fracture. A shudder, violent and exquisite, wracked her frame, her back lifting completely from the mattress as her internal muscles convulsed in a rapid, involuntary rhythm. And then it broke, not as a trickle but as a torrent, a hot, liquid release that flooded from her, soaking the tangled linen beneath her trembling thighs. The force of it was a surprise even to her, a burst of pure ecstasy that left her gasping, her vision spotting with stars as wave after wave of liquid heat pulsed from her very center. The open, stretched ring of muscle quivered in sympathetic rhythm, each throb of her climax mirrored by a soft, welcoming spasm at that well-used portal. Finally, spent and shimmering with sweat, she collapsed into the aftermath, a hollowed-out vessel of pure sensation, every nerve ending singing a hymn of complete and utter satiation.
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