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Pristine Edge, Penelope Kay Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to hum with a low, anticipatory warmth, thick with the scent of sandalwood and the faint, clean salt of skin. Her fingers, slick with oil heated to just above body temperature, made their first deliberate contact, a slow, gliding pressure that mapped the elegant slope of a shoulder blade. A soft sigh escaped the woman beneath her touch, a sound that was both surrender and invitation, melting into the plush surface of the table. The attendant’s palms followed the path of that sound, pressing into the yielding flesh, finding the subtle knots of tension and coaxing them into liquid ease with a rhythmic, hypnotic motion. Every stroke was a silent question, and every sighing release from the recipient was its eloquent, affirmative answer. The only light came from a single candle, its flame dancing and casting long, shifting shadows that caressed the curves of their bodies in the dimness. As her hands swept down the length of the spine, she felt a fine tremor, a current of awakening pleasure that resonated through her own fingertips. She leaned closer, her breath a ghost of heat agat the nape of a neck, intensifying the intimacy of the silent, focused ritual. In this hushed sanctuary, touch became the only language, a fluent dialect of pressure and release that spoke of deep, unspoken yearning.
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