Evilangel
Mara Gri, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The golden afternoon light bled through the vast windows, casting long, languid shadows across the polished concrete floor where she stood. A slow, deliberate breath filled her lungs, the air tasting of distant rain and the faint, metallic tang of the city far below. Her fingers, long and elegant, began their journey at the delicate hollow of her throat, tracing a path of awakening sensation down the graceful slope of her collarbone. The whisper-soft silk of her chemise seemed to sigh agat her skin, a mere suggestion of a barrier as her touch drifted lower, over the gentle swell of her breast where her heart beat a steady, primal rhythm. She closed her eyes, surrendering to the exploration, each pad of her fingers a student learning the sacred geography of its own temple. A soft, involuntary sound escaped her lips as her palm curved to fit the warm weight, her thumb brushing a peak that tightened tantly into a bead of pure anticipation. This was not a performance for any lens but a private ritual, a reclamation of the form so often objectified, now worshipped by its sole inhabitant. Heat pooled low in her belly, a liquid warmth that spread through her limbs like honey, making her sway gently on her feet. In this solitary space, with the world a muted blur beyond the glass, she was both the artist and the masterpiece, unraveling in the glorious, silent symphony of her own touch.
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