Roccosiffredi
Marika Milani, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The cool leather of the chair conforms to the curve of my lower back as I settle into its embrace, a stark contrast to the heat blooming across my skin. My fingers trace a slow, deliberate path up my own thigh, feeling the faint tremor of anticipation that dances just beneath the surface. Each breath I draw is a conscious act, filling my lungs deeply before escaping in a soft, audible sigh that seems to hang in the quiet room. I let my head fall back, eyes closing not to block out sensation but to amplify it, to feel the weight of an unseen gaze as a tangible caress. The arch of my neck is an offering, the pulse at its base a frantic drumbeat agat the silent, watching air. A single bead of perspiration traces a lazy, meandering path from my temple, following the line of my jaw down to the hollow of my throat. I imagine it as a lens, focusing a thousand points of light into a single, searing point of contact that makes my breath catch. The slow, circular motion of my own palm agat my stomach is both a comfort and a provocation, a promise of the pleasure that is mine to command and to share. In this suspended moment, every nerve ending is alight, a constellation of feeling mapped across my body for a singular, devoted audience.
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