Evilangel
Leda Lotharia, Mick Blue Pic(s)
The air was thick with the scent of her arousal, a heady perfume that clung to the humid space between their tangled bodies. His voice, a low and gravelly murmur, poured into her ear, painting vivid, obscene pictures of the pleasure he intended to wring from her. Each deliberate, slow withdrawal made her gasp, a prelude to the deep, filling thrust that stretched her limits with a burning, exquisite fullness. He whispered filth, not as an ult, but as a sacrament, his words a dark liturgy that celebrated the utter openness he was cultivating within her. Her body, slick with sweat, arched agat his, a bowstring pulled taut, every nerve ending singing a raw, primal song. When he finally pulled away completely, a soft, shuddering sigh escaped her lips, the cool air a shocking contrast to the intimate heat he left behind. The evidence of their union remained, a profound and vulnerable emptiness that pulsed with the memory of his possession. He guided her trembling hips, turning her to face him, his dark eyes holding hers with a look of awestruck hunger. In that shared silence, the lewd promises he had whispered were made manifest, a testament to the complete surrender she had so willingly gifted him.
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