Evilangel
Charlotte Sartre, Ramon Nomar Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to cling to her form, a warm, heavy presence that amplified the scent of the slick, amber unguent she poured into her palm. With a deliberate slowness, she began to trace the contours of her own body, the oil catching the low light and gleaming along the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist. The polished, second-skin garment she wore amplified every sensation, a tight, whispering embrace that left nothing to the imagination, its dark surface a perfect, seamless mirror of her own taut flesh. Her breath hitched as her slick fingers ventured lower, exploring the sensitive, hidden territory at the base of her spine, a place of profound vulnerability and anticipation. A single, practiced digit, glistening and warm, pressed agat that most intimate of portals, a silent question posed to her own nerve-endings. The initial resistance was a fleeting, electric shock that melted tantly into a deep, yielding warmth, a welcome invasion that made her gasp and arch her back. The feeling of being slowly, meticulously filled was an exquisite paradox of intense pressure and liberating release, a private celebration of penetration. Waves of pleasure began to radiate outwards from that central, penetrating point, coursing through her entire being like liquid fire, coiling tight in her belly. She moved with a slow, undulating rhythm, a solitary dance of self-discovery where every nerve was alight, every sensation magnified by the glossy sheath encasing her and the fragrant oil smoothing her way.
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