Filthykings
Jocelyn Stone, Peter Green Pic(s)
The room was bathed in the soft, forgiving glow of a single lamp, its light catching the gentle curve of her spine as she knelt, a silent offering upon the rumpled sheets. A tremor, delicate as a captured moth, fluttered through her limbs, a testament to the profound vulnerability of the moment. He watched, his breath a warm caress agat the nape of her neck, before his thumb, slick with a fragrant oil, began to trace slow, deliberate circles over the most intimate of gateways. The initial touch was a spark of pure sensation, a startling heat that made her gasp softly into the waiting quiet. The pressure intensified with infinite patience, a persistent, gentle istence that promised both possession and reverence. Her body, a tightly strung trument, began to yield its resistance, the tightly guarded ring of muscle softening under his unwavering attention. A low, throaty moan escaped her lips as the very tip of him breached that final barrier, a sensation so full and stretching it blurred the lines between pleasure and exquisite ache. The world narrowed to this single, penetrating point of connection, a slow, inexorable filling that spoke of secrets shared and trust absolute. With each millimeter of progress, a wave of shocking fullness radiated outward, claiming her completely, transforming tentative fear into a deep, resonant hum of awakening pleasure.
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