Wicked
Paris Amour, Tyler Nixon Pic(s)
The sharp scent of ozone and clean sweat hung in the air, a testament to the frantic energy that had just crested and broken. His world had narrowed to the single, shattering point of contact, a fusion of heat and friction that obliterated all coherent thought. A guttural sound, ripped from the very core of his being, escaped his lips as his back arched sharply off the damp sheets. Every muscle, coiled tight as a spring for what felt an eternity, surrendered at once in a glorious, uncontrolled convulsion. Waves of pure, liquid pleasure radiated outward from his center, each pulse more intense than the last, washing away any semblance of restraint or awareness. His vision blurred at the edges, the room dissolving into a shimmering haze of sensation, his hearing filled with the thunderous rush of his own blood. It was a complete surrender, a freefall into an abyss of feeling where nothing existed but the raw, consuming fire of release. He was utterly spent, his body humming with the lingering echoes of the cataclysm, every nerve ending singing a final, blissful note. A profound stillness descended, heavy and sweet, as he drifted back into the quiet reality of the room, the aftershocks still trembling through his limbs.
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