Evilangel
Alysa Gap, Megan Inky, Damien Soup Pic(s)
The first set of hands, cool and deliberate, traced the map of my spine while another, warmer and softer, cradled my jaw, tilting my head back into the pillow. A mouth found the frantic pulse at my throat, its tongue a slow, wet promise agat my skin as fingers, belonging to a different presence entirely, slipped between my thighs. The scent of night air and warm bodies filled the room, a heady mix of clean sweat and something faintly sweet like amber. Whispers, one voice a low murmur near my ear, the other a breathy sigh agat my shoulder, wove a tapestry of quiet urgency. Every inch of me was attended to, a symphony of touch where no single sensation was allowed to dominate for long. A knee gently pressed my legs wider as a palm smoothed over my stomach, claiming the territory with a possessive calm. I was an trument being played by two masters in perfect, unspoken harmony, each stroke and caress building upon the last. The world narrowed to this dimly lit sanctuary, to the shifting weight on the mattress and the shared, rhythmic breath that fogged the air. I surrendered completely, a vessel filling with a pleasure that was doubled, echoing from one set of lips to another, until I was utterly, wonderfully lost between them.
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