Evilangel
Khloe Kapri, Tommy Pistol Pic(s)
A profound tremor began deep within her core, a gathering storm of sensation that radiated outward, causing her thighs to quiver agat the damp sheets. His knowing fingers traced intricate patterns just ide her entrance, each deliberate stroke coaxing forth a tide of pure, unadulterated pleasure. The air grew thick with the scent of her arousal, a musky sweetness that clung to their heated skin as her back arched, a silent plea for more. Suddenly, a warm, rushing torrent escaped her, not a trickle but a generous flood that glistened on his wrist and painted her stomach with its pearlescent sheen. In the languid aftermath, as her body hummed with the echoes of release, his attention shifted lower, to the tightly furled rosebud that now pulsed with its own hungry rhythm. A single, slick digit pressed agat that forbidden portal, meeting no resistance as it slowly, inexorably, sank into the yielding warmth within. The feeling was one of utter fullness, a delicious stretching that made her gasp and clutch at the pillows, her inner muscles fluttering in welcome. He worked her with a patient, rhythmic motion, each withdrawal followed by a deeper, more profound penetration that gradually transformed tightness into a blissful, open emptiness. Finally, as he pulled away, the cool air kissed the sensitized, well-traveled ring of muscle, a perfect, spent circle that throbbed with the memory of his intimate invasion.
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