The Spanish Stallion: Field Of Sluts

Evilangel

Sybil, Erik Everhard Pic(s)

The sun beat down upon the vast, sun-baked plain, its heat a palpable weight upon the air thick with the scent of crushed wild thyme and dry earth. A lone figure, all coiled muscle and gleaming mahogany skin, moved with an untamed grace through the sea of golden grass that whispered agat his powerful thighs. His presence was a low hum of potential energy, a promise of sweat and raw power that made the very atmosphere tremble with anticipation. From the shade of a gnarled olive tree, a chorus of sighs rose like a soft wind, a collection of yearning souls scattered like poppies across the landscape. Their eyes, dark and liquid with desire, followed his every fluid movement, tracing the ripple of his abdomen and the proud set of his shoulders. He paused, turning his head slowly, his gaze sweeping over them with a smoldering intensity that felt like a physical touch. A collective shiver ran through the watchers as he began to walk toward them, his stride a confident, rolling gait that spoke of ancient rhythms and primal knowledge. The distance closed not in steps, but in heartbeats, each one a loud drum in the silence broken only by the buzz of ects. He finally stood before the nearest one, the shadow he cast a cool blessing, and a single, calloused hand reached out to gently tilt a chin upwards, sealing a wordless pact under the relentless afternoon sky.