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Jenna Foxx, Bella Rolland Pic(s)
The first touch of her hands was a revelation, a slow, deliberate press of warm palms that seemed to melt the very concept of tension from my shoulders. A faint, earthy scent of sandalwood oil filled the air, its aroma deepening with every smooth, gliding stroke that mapped the terrain of my back. Her fingers, possessing an intuitive knowledge of muscle and bone, sought out every hidden knot of stress, unraveling them with a patient, circular pressure that bordered on blissful agony. I felt my breath hitch as her thumbs traced the delicate ridge of my spine, a slow, deliberate descent that sent shivers rippling outward across my skin. The world beyond the dimly lit room, with its soft linen and the distant hum of a quiet street, ceased to exist, my entire universe narrowing to the path of those knowing hands. They moved lower, kneading the small of my back with a firm, rhythmic cadence that pulled a low, involuntary sigh from my lips. Each movement was a silent conversation, a language of pressure and release that spoke directly to my weary soul, awakening a deep, thrumming warmth within my core. The heat from her palms seeped into my very being, a liquid radiance that pooled in my abdomen and spread through my limbs like a slow-burning fire. In that hushed sanctuary, time itself seemed to suspend, leaving only the exquisite sensation of being utterly, completely unraveled and remade.
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