Filthykings
Indica Monroe, Tyler Steel Pic(s)
The room was heavy with the scent of ancient incense and the sweet, earthy perfume of burning herbs, a haze that clung to the air like a silken veil. Her movements were a slow, deliberate ritual, each gesture flowing into the next with the languid grace of a deep, waking dream. He watched, mesmerized, as her fingers, delicate yet sure, traced a path down the hard plane of his stomach, her touch a whisper of heat agat his skin. She lowered herself, a supplicant before an altar, her dark eyes reflecting the dim, golden light as they held his gaze with an unwavering intensity. The first contact was electric, a soft, yielding pressure that sent a shiver through his entire frame, a silent promise of the pleasure to come. Her lips, full and warm, parted to welcome him, creating a sanctuary of wet, velvet heat that seemed to pull the very breath from his lungs. A low, appreciative hum vibrated from her throat, the sound resonating through his core as she began a rhythm as old as time itself, a gentle, undulating cadence that built with exquisite patience. The world outside the clouded windows ceased to exist, reduced to the symphony of their shared breath and the slick, intimate sounds of her devotion. He surrendered completely, lost in the swirling fog of sensation, every nerve ending alight with the profound, building tension of her worship.
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