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Georgia Jones, Kristen Scott Pic(s)
The low, resonant ache pulsed through him like a slow, deep bass line, a constant and intimate thrum that made every shift in the plush velvet seat a conscious, deliberate act. Each subtle movement sent a wave of heat radiating from his core, a private, smoldering fire that painted his skin with a delicate flush. He could feel the rich fabric of his trousers, once a mere costume, now a textured whisper agat his sensitized flesh, every thread a reminder of the vigorous, rhythmic dance that had come before. The memory of strong, guiding hands on his hips played in his mind, a phantom pressure that synced perfectly with the lingering, tender throb. A single bead of sweat traced a slow, meandering path down the small of his back, a cool counterpoint to the warm, heavy sensation of fullness that persisted within. The air itself felt thick and syrupy, heavy with the scent of his own exertion and the faint, musky perfume of the darkened theater around him. Closing his eyes, he surrendered to the symphony of discomfort, each tender pang a percussive note in a deeply personal composition of spent passion. It was a melody of exquisite sensitivity, a harmonious reminder of the powerful, driving forces that had led him to this state of beautifully battered repose. This was the quiet, humming aftermath, a solo performance of sensation where every nerve ending sang its own hushed, satisfied song.
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