Evilangel
Jane Wilde, Chris Diamond Pic(s)
The world dissolved into a single, searing point of connection, a pressure that built not as an invasion but as a profound and welcome yielding. Her breath hitched, a sharp intake of air that was less a gasp and more a silent prayer as her body accepted the slow, deliberate fullness. Every nerve ending seemed to migrate to that sacred junction, alight with a fire that was both terrifying and exquisite. His movements were a languid, rhythmic tide, each gentle surge coaxing her deeper into a state of primal surrender. A low moan escaped her lips, unbidden, as the sensation bloomed from a deep, internal spark into a radiating wave of heat. The tight coil of pleasure within her core began to unravel, its spiraling intensity threatening to shatter her very sense of self. She could feel the tremor starting deep ide, a seismic shift of pure ecstasy that made her fingers clutch at the sheets. It was a culmination, a silent scream of release that tore through her with the force of a breaking storm, leaving her trembling and utterly spent. In the hushed aftermath, only the echo of that perfect, consuming rupture remained, a testament to the bliss found in complete and total abandon.
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