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Marilyn Mansion, Bruno Dickemz Pic(s)
The air in the room grew thick with the scent of us, a primal perfume of salt and skin as his shadow fell over me, larger than life. My breath hitched, not from fear, but from a deep, aching anticipation that coiled low in my belly, a silent plea finally being answered. His hands, warm and sure, traced a path up the sensitive skin of my inner thighs, a deliberate, maddening delay that made every nerve ending scream for contact. When his fingers finally found my core, slick and swollen with need, a soft, guttural sound escaped my lips, a surrender to the exquisite pressure of his touch. He entered me with a slow, deliberate push that made my eyes flutter shut, a single, stretching fullness that was both a claiming and a release. Each deliberate, measured thrust deepened the sensation, a perfect, burning friction that built a tremulous heat from my very center. I could feel the way my body yielded and tightened around him, a rhythmic, involuntary clenching that spoke of a pleasure too intense to contain. The world narrowed to this single point of connection, the sound of our ragged breathing and the slick, wet slide of our joining becoming the only music. It was a delicious, relentless expansion, pushing me to the very edge of my senses until I was nothing but a vessel for this overwhelming, shattering bliss.
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