Evilangel
Erin Everheart, Mick Blue Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to shimmer with a humid heat, thick with the scent of her exertion and the clean, rubbery aroma of the equipment. A low, guttural groan escaped her lips, not of pain but of profound, overwhelming fullness as a powerful, relentless pressure began to build deep within her core. Every nerve ending in her body was alight, singing a primal song of surrender to the incredible force methodically claiming her most intimate passage. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the edge of the counter, her back arching as waves of intense sensation radiated outwards, turning her limbs to liquid fire. She could feel the deliberate, pulsing rhythm as it worked its way through her, a liquid heat flooding her ides and stretching her to her absolute limit. The experience was a paradox of utter control and complete abandon, a symphony of pressure and release that made her entire being tremble. A sheen of perspiration coated her skin, catching the light as muscles deep ide her clenched and fluttered around the invading torrent. It was a cleansing, a claiming, a sensation so powerful it bordered on the spiritual, wiping all thought from her mind except for the raw, physical truth of the moment. Finally, a shuddering, gasping cry was torn from her throat, the culmination of an overwhelming tide of pleasure that left her utterly spent and profoundly transformed.
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