Filthykings
Eliza Eves, Jonathan Jordan Pic(s)
The room was bathtub warm, thick with the scent of sweat and skin. Her head tilted back, a low moan vibrating in her throat as a profound pressure filled her, a slow, deliberate invasion that stretched her lips to their limit. Her own mouth was busy elsewhere, a wet, worshipful attention paid to the heavy, veined shaft that pulsed agat her tongue. Each deep, throaty groan from above was answered by a muffled, eager whimper from below, a primal dialogue conducted without words. She could feel the powerful rhythm of his hips, a steady, rolling tide that guided her own movements, creating a perfect, synchronized dance of giving and receiving. The taste of salt and musk was overwhelming, a heady perfume that drowned all other senses, leaving only touch and sound. Her world narrowed to this singular point of connection, a circuit of pleasure where she was both servant and master. The sheer girth challenging her jaw was a sweet, aching strain, a testament to the magnificent scale of the man she pleasured. In that humid, breathless space, two hungers were being fed at once, a beautiful, messy symmetry of desire.
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