Addicted2Girls
Judy Jolie, Mia Moore Pic(s)
The world had narrowed to the slick, rhythmic sound of our bodies meeting, a wet percussion that filled the quiet room. Her back was a perfect, supple arch beneath me, every muscle taut with a surrender that was anything but passive. I watched, mesmerized, as each deliberate thrust from the harness I wore sent a visible tremor through her form, a wave of sensation that began deep within her core and rippled outwards to the delicate flutter of her shoulders. The air was thick with the scent of our exertion, a heady mix of warm skin and the faint, clean aroma of the silicone gliding so effortlessly into her welcoming heat. A low, guttural moan escaped her lips, a sound that was pure, unadulterated pleasure, and it fueled my own hunger, making my movements more purposeful, more possessive. I could feel the tight, clutching grasp of her internal muscles around the rigid length, a silken fist milking every inch with breathtaking pressure. My own hips moved with a primal certainty, each push a question and each yielding pull from her body the most eloquent answer. Sweat painted a glistening path down the valley of my spine, a testament to the building, coiling tension that threatened to shatter us both. In that suspended moment, we were nothing but a single, perfect trument of feeling, played by the relentless, beautiful friction of our joining.
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