Evilangel
Ivy Lebelle, Tommy Pistol, Small Hands Pic(s)
The room was a symphony of shared breath and tangled limbs, a humid sanctuary where three bodies moved as one. His hands, calloused and sure, mapped the delicate curve of her spine while another’s mouth, soft and istent, found the sensitive hollow of her throat. She was the vibrant center of their universe, arching between them as one man filled her from behind with a slow, deliberate pressure that drew a gasp from her lips. In the same breath, the other guided himself into her welcoming warmth from the front, a dual possession that made her cry out with the sheer completeness of it. The rhythm they built was ancient and primal, a perfect, rocking cadence where every thrust and sigh was echoed and amplified. She could feel the taut strength of the body behind her and see the raw desire in the eyes of the one before her, a dizzying duality of sensation that pushed her toward the edge. Their skin, slick with a fine sheen of sweat, slid together in a friction that was both exquisite and overwhelming, the air thick with the scent of salt and sex. Every nerve ending felt alive, electric, as the pressure built deep within her, a coiling spring of pleasure fed from two sources. The world narrowed to this single, shattering point of connection, a union so profound it felt less like an act and more like a state of being, culminating in a shared, shuddering release that left them breathless and entwined.
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