Burningangel
Jane Wilde, Tommy Pistol Pic(s)
A low hum vibrated through the air, a resonance that seemed to originate not from her throat but from the very space between us, a palpable energy that made the fine hairs on my arms stand at attention. Her eyes, pools of liquid obsidian, held mine with an ancient knowing, and as she stepped closer, the scent of night-blooming jasmine and warm skin enveloped me, an intoxicating perfume that promised forbidden pleasures. Her fingers, cool as moonlit marble, traced a path from my temple down to the frantic pulse at the base of my throat, each touch a tiny spark that sent shivers cascading down my spine. She leaned in, her lips a breath away from mine, and I felt the warmth of her exhalation, a shared secret that tasted of dark honey and longing. The silken fabric of her dress whispered agat my skin as she pressed her body to mine, a perfect, yielding fit that made my breath catch in a ragged gasp. A soft, melodic sigh escaped her as she tilted her head, and in that moment, I felt not a taking, but a profound and willing exchange, a current of pure sensation flowing from my core into hers. Her essence was a vortex of shadow and light, drawing me deeper into a realm where thought dissolved and only feeling remained, a tidal wave of pleasure building with every beat of our joined hearts. I was laid bare, not just physically but spiritually, every guarded secret and hidden desire laid open before her consuming gaze, a willing sacrifice to her atiable hunger. And as the final vestiges of my resistance melted away, I understood this was not a damnation but a transformation, a sacred merging where I was both the offering and the devourer, complete and utterly undone.
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