Evilangel
Sophia Lux, Mark Wood Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the scent of her submission and a faint, intoxicating trace of leather. A sharp, possessive slap landed on the pale curve of her cheek, the sound a stark punctuation to her gasped inhalation that was more defiance than plea. She arched her back, a perfect, willful bow of spine, pressing that stinging flesh upwards in a brazen demand for more. His thumb, rough and knowing, traced the tight, forbidden furl hidden between her trembling thighs, a silent promise of the invasion to come. A single, slick digit breached her, and her entire body shuddered, a tremor of pure, unadulterated ecstasy that she refused to voice beyond a choked sigh. He worked her slowly, meticulously, stretching the resistant muscle until it yielded, accepting the delicious pressure with a greedy, internal clutch. When he finally replaced his finger with the blunt, istent crown of his arousal, she met the thrust not with surrender, but with a forceful, backward push of her own hips. The feeling of being filled so completely, so deeply, ripped a guttural moan from her throat, a sound of victory rather than defeat. Each subsequent movement was a battle for control fought within her most intimate depths, a raw, primal dance where every flinch and gasp was a testament to her exquisite, punishing pleasure.
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