Burningangel
Joanna Angel, Small Hands Pic(s)
The world narrows to the exquisite pressure building at my most intimate entrance, a silent, pleading question answered by the slow, inexorable yielding of my body. Her heat is the first thing I register, a furnace-like warmth that seems to melt away any last vestige of resistance as she presses forward, filling me with a stretch that is both overwhelming and deeply satisfying. A low, guttural moan escapes my lips, the sound swallowed by the heavy, perfumed air as every nerve ending ignites, screaming with a pleasure so sharp it borders on pain. The rhythm beg, a deliberate, deep cadence that rocks my entire being, each inward stroke a claiming, each withdrawal a sweet, aching loss. I can feel the fine sheen of sweat slicking our connected skin, the musky scent of our passion rising around us like an intoxicating cloud. My vision blurs at the edges, focusing only on the primal connection, the feeling of being utterly possessed and completely free in the same breathtaking moment. Her whispered encouragements are a rasp agat my ear, filthy promises that coil tight in my belly and push me closer to the edge. The intensity is a live wire under my skin, a building inferno that threatens to consume all rational thought, leaving only raw, animal sensation. Every thrust becomes a punctuation mark in a sentence of pure ecstasy, driving me toward a shattering culmination that feels both earned and violently stolen.
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