21Sextury
Lina Mercury, Ian Scott Pic(s)
The first sensation was not of sound, but of pressure, a deep and resonant thrum that began somewhere in the core of the world and vibrated up through the floorboards, into the bed frame, and directly into the marrow of my bones. A low groan escaped my lips, not from sleep but from the sheer physicality of the disturbance, a wave of sound that felt less like hearing and more like being touched everywhere at once. My eyelids fluttered open to a room still steeped in the deep indigo of pre-dawn, the air thick and warm agat my bare skin. Every nerve ending, previously dormant, was now alight, hyper-aware of the weight of the sheet draped over my hips and the faint, musky scent of my own sleep clinging to the pillow. The relentless, rhythmic pounding outside my window was not an annoyance but an istent, primal drumbeat that seemed to synchronize with the sudden, heavy pulse between my legs. I stretched, a long, languid arch of my spine that pressed my breasts agat the cool cotton, a sharp contrast to the heat pooling low in my belly. My hand moved of its own volition, fingers splaying across my abdomen, feeling the quiver of anticipation deep within. The vibration was ide me now, a demanding echo that left no room for thought, only a raw, aching need for a different, more intimate kind of pressure. This was not a gentle invitation to wakefulness, but a commanding summons from the body itself, a call to attend to its urgent, throbbing hunger.
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