Evilangel
Leah Winters, John Strong Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the scent of warm skin and a single, focused intent. Her world had narrowed to the exquisite pressure building at her most forbidden entrance, a silent, pleading demand that made her breath catch. A slick, istent touch began to circle there, a promise of the profound invasion to come, and she arched her back in surrender. The initial breach was a slow, stretching burn that blossomed into a deep, resonant fullness, stealing the very air from her lungs. Every slight movement sent shivers of raw sensation coursing through her, a private lightning storm contained within the cradle of her hips. Whispers, hot agat her neck, praised her utter openness as she was claimed completely, her body yielding to a rhythm as ancient as the tides. Each deliberate thrust was a lesson in pleasure-pain, a masterful dance that blurred the lines between torment and ecstasy. She became a vessel of pure feeling, her consciousness dissolving into the primal cadence of flesh meeting flesh. A low, guttural moan was torn from her throat, not of protest, but of profound, soul-deep acceptance as she was utterly unmade and remade in that moment of shared, intense connection.
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