Evilangel
Dana Vespoli, Riley Steele, Markus Dupree Pic(s)
The cathedral of flesh echoed with a sacred silence broken only by the ragged rhythm of their breath. His hands, like those of a fallen priest administering a profane sacrament, mapped the trembling geography of her surrender. Each deliberate press agat that most forbidden gate was a prayer whispered agat her skin, a heresy that made her arch agat the cold stone. The initial resistance was a fleeting vow of chastity, tantly shattered by a slow, inexorable invasion that felt less like taking and more like a homecoming to a place never meant to be inhabited. A low moan escaped her lips, not of pain, but of profound recognition, as if her body had always known this deep, internal violation was its true purpose. The air grew thick with the scent of their mingled sweat, an incense offered to a new, darker god born between their joined bodies. Every subtle shift sent shockwaves of sensation radiating outward, a blasphemous communion that consecrated the very air around them. He moved with a torturous patience, each thrust a meticulously crafted sin that unraveled her composure thread by silken thread. In that shadowed sanctum, they found a twisted grace, their union a beautiful, devastating act of defilement that left them both trembling and utterly remade.
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