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Shyla Jennings, Lily Carter Pic(s)
The worn floorboards groaned under her shifting weight as she pressed herself deeper into the shadowed corner, the rough texture of the plaster wall a stark contrast agat the bare skin of her back. A single bead of sweat traced a slow, deliberate path from her temple, curving along the line of her jaw before disappearing into the hollow of her throat, which pulsed with the frantic rhythm of her heart. The air itself felt heavy and thick, clinging to her like a second skin, each breath a conscious effort that filled her lungs with the scent of her own rising heat and the faint, metallic taste of anticipation. Her fingers, trembling slightly, splayed agat her thigh, the simple touch sending a jolt of electricity through her weary body, a reminder of the sensitivity that hardship had not managed to extinguish. She closed her eyes, and in the darkness behind her lids, a memory surfaced not of pain, but of a hand, warm and sure, moving with agonizing slowness over the very curve her own fingers now brushed. A low, involuntary sound escaped her lips, a soft sigh that was part surrender and part defiance, as she allowed the fantasy to take hold, to momentarily eclipse the grim reality of her surroundings. The coarse fabric of her simple garment suddenly felt like an intolerable barrier, each thread a tiny restraint agat the awakening thrum that began to build deep within her core. It was a desperate, private rebellion, this act of conjuring pleasure from the depths of despair, a silent scream agat the relentless tide of her circumstances. And as her head fell back agat the wall, a sharp, quiet gasp was torn from her, the first true sensation of something other than anguish flooding her senses with a devastating, welcome intensity.
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