Evilangel
Anastasia Brokelyn, Yanick Shaft Pic(s)
The room was bathed in the soft, honeyed glow of a single lamp, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to pulse with our shared anticipation. Her breath hitched as my fingers, slick with warm oil, traced a deliberate, feather-light path along the very outer edge of her most intimate threshold, a circle of exquisite sensitivity. A low, guttural moan escaped her lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated need that vibrated through the stillness of the evening. I followed the delicate, crinkled contour with unwavering patience, my touch a whisper agat her skin, feeling the subtle clench and release of muscles beneath my exploring fingertips. The air grew thick with the scent of her arousal, mingling with the faint, sweet aroma of the almond oil I used to anoint her. My mouth soon replaced my hands, my tongue a wet, hot point of contact that traced the same forbidden circle with agonizing slowness. She arched her back, pressing herself agat me, her body speaking a language of desperate consent and overwhelming pleasure. Every flick and gentle pressure of my tongue was a promise, a worshipful act focused solely on the symphony of sensation building within her. I lost myself in the rhythm of her responding shudders, each one a testament to the power of this singular, focused devotion.
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