Evilangel
Nicole Doshi, Jonni Darkko Pic(s)
Her mouth opened, a warm, wet welcome that seemed to have no end, a surrender to a profound and primal hunger. A soft, guttural sound vibrated in her throat, a hum of pure contentment as she accepted the full, aching length, her body curving in a graceful arc of devotion. The world narrowed to this single, slick point of connection, the pressure a perfect, building heat that coiled deep within her own core. Her tongue, a clever and relentless trument, traced every sensitive ridge and vein with a languid, knowing pressure that promised unbearable pleasure. Her throat muscles fluttered and then relaxed, a practiced, involuntary yielding that created a silken, rhythmic massage. Each slow, deliberate withdrawal was a tease, a momentary loss of that exquisite fullness before she plunged forward again, her lips sealed tight at the base. The salty, masculine taste of him was a drug on her tongue, fueling her desperate, deep rhythm as her fingers tightened their grip on his hips. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and dark with need, remained locked on his, reflecting a shared, escalating frenzy that made the air itself feel thick and electric. This was not merely an act of giving, but a voracious claiming of her own ecstasy, each deep, swallowing motion bringing her closer to her own shuddering, silent peak.
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