Evilangel
Jane Wilde, Damion Dayski Pic(s)
The air was thick with the scent of sweat and anticipation, a heavy perfume that clung to the humid space between their bodies. Her breath hitched as a profound pressure began to build at her most intimate entrance, a slow, istent promise of the fullness to come. He was a monument of flesh and desire, his impressive girth stretching her delicate tissues with an exquisite, burning patience that made her whimper. Each deliberate inch of his advance was a wave of overwhelming sensation, a deep internal massage that pushed her further toward a precipice of pure feeling. The world narrowed to the slick, rhythmic sounds of their joining and the primal groans torn from her throat. When he finally sheathed himself completely, a shuddering moan escaped her, the feeling of being utterly filled and possessed leaving her dizzy. His movements began then, a powerful, rolling tide that crashed agat her very core, each withdrawal leaving a fleeting void before the breathtaking plunge returned. The intensity built to an almost unbearable peak, a symphony of friction and surrender that left her trembling and exposed. In the trembling aftermath, as he slowly withdrew, she was left with a lingering, open emptiness, a testament to the overwhelming passage of his magnificent form.
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