Evilangel
Marilyn Sugar, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The golden light of the late afternoon poured through the window, catching the fine, sweet dust that drifted in the air like tiny, suspended jewels. She leaned back agat the plush velvet, the fabric a deep crimson that seemed to drink the light, its texture a soft promise agat her bare skin. A slow, secretive smile touched her lips as she dipped a single finger into the small porcelain bowl, emerging with a crystalline grain clinging to the tip. She brought it to her mouth, her tongue a delicate pink petal tasting the pure, sharp sweetness that dissolved tantly upon contact. That simple act sent a visible, languid shiver through her entire body, a ripple of pleasure that started at the core of her and radiated outwards. The scent of her, warm skin and vanilla, mingled with the almost edible fragrance now perfuming the room, creating an intoxicating atmosphere of indulgence. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and dark with a knowing contentment, held a distant focus, as if she were savoring a memory along with the flavor. She traced a path along her collarbone with that same finger, leaving a faint, sticky trail that glittered in the honeyed glow, a deliberate map of sensation. In that suspended moment, every movement was a silent language of anticipation, a prelude to a deeper, more profound fulfillment that hung palpably in the warm, still air.
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