Devilsfilm
Chanel Skye, Eric John Pic(s)
The cascade began as a single, cool drop tracing a slow, deliberate path from the hollow of her throat, a liquid explorer charting the uncharted territory of her skin. It gathered momentum, joined by others from the slick, heated tiles, until a shimmering film enveloped her shoulders, catching the low light like a second skin of diamonds. Her breath hitched as the stream forked, one rivulet cascading over the gentle slope of her breast, its journey a delicious, icy contrast to the warmth blooming beneath. Another pathfinder slid along the sensitive curve of her spine, a teasing promise of sensation that made her arch slightly into the spray. The water wasn’t merely cleansing; it was a language, speaking in whispers of pressure and temperature agat every pore. She could feel the pulse of the showerhead in the thousand tiny impacts, a rhythmic percussion that echoed the quickening beat within her own chest. Closing her eyes, she surrendered to the elemental massage, each droplet a tiny, istent mouth awakening nerves she had forgotten existed. The steam rose around her, thick with the scent of her own arousal and the clean, mineral tang of the liquid embrace, a fragrant fog that clouded reason. In that suspended moment, she was nothing but a landscape of feeling, sculpted and adored by the relentless, loving fall.
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