Roccosiffredi
Alina Crystal, Kris The Foxx, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The leather couch sighed beneath his shifting weight as her analytical gaze traced the tension coiled along his shoulders, a cartographer mapping undiscovered terrain. Her voice, a low murmur of honey and smoke, asked him to articulate the exact sensation blooming low in his abdomen, a request that felt more intimate than any touch. He closed his eyes, describing the heat as a slow, viscous liquid seeping through his ve, pooling in a heavy, istent thrum between his thighs. The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the scent of her perfume—jasmine and clean skin—mingling with the faint, earthy aroma of his own arousal. She guided him to focus on the texture of his own heartbeat, a frantic drum agat his ribs that echoed in the quiet, dimly lit room. His fingers curled into the supple hide of the couch, imagining tead they were tangling in the silk of her hair, pulling her closer to taste the questions on her lips. Every word she spoke was a deliberate, gentle stroke along the length of his consciousness, unraveling his inhibitions one thread at a time. He felt laid bare, not just physically but psychically, every secret desire named and examined under her quiet command. A soft, involuntary moan escaped him as the final boundary dissolved, leaving only the raw, pulsating truth of his wanting.
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