Evilangel
Diana Grace, Mark Wood Pic(s)
The world narrowed to the single, profound intimacy of that first, hesitant touch of my tongue agat a place I had only ever imagined. A soft, yielding warmth greeted the tentative exploration, a secret landscape of delicate textures and hidden sensitivity. The quiet gasp that escaped his lips was a symphony of surprise and pleasure, urging me to delve deeper with a more confident, languid stroke. I traced the tight, furled knot of muscle, feeling it flutter and soften under the persistent, wet heat of my mouth, a silent surrender that sent a jolt of pure desire straight to my own core. The taste was clean, musky, uniquely him, an intoxicating essence that filled my senses as I worshipped this most private part of his body. My own arousal became a palpable, throbbing echo of the act, a building pressure coiling deep within my belly with each flick and circle of my tongue. I lost myself in the rhythm, in the soft sounds of his breathing growing ragged, in the way his hips began to press back agat my face with a desperate, unspoken need. The tension ide me snapped, a silent, shattering climax that washed through my entire being, leaving me trembling and breathless agat his skin. In that final, shared moment of release, the last vestige of inhibition melted away, leaving only the raw, beautiful connection we had forged.
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