21Sextreme
Franny, John Price Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to hum with a new, pristine energy, carrying the faint, intoxicating scent of lemon and warm, polished wood. She ran a single, appreciative fingertip along the surface of the mahogany desk, her touch meeting not a speck of dust but a deep, liquid shine that mirrored the fading evening light. Every object in the room had been returned to its perfect state, the pillows plumped into soft clouds, the silverware gleaming like captured stars on the dining table. The silence was not empty but full, a palpable quietude born from absolute order, a sanctuary crafted by unseen, diligent hands. The crisp, clean linen on the vast bed whispered promises of deep, untroubled sleep as she sank into its flawless embrace. Even the windowpanes, now invisible barriers, framed the city lights with crystalline clarity, each speck of illumination sharp and bright agat the velvet sky. A profound sense of being cared for, of being intimately known and anticipated, washed over her, a luxurious warmth spreading from her core. It was a feeling more intimate than a caress, this silent, meticulous devotion to her comfort and pleasure. In the perfect stillness, she felt not alone, but exquisitely attended, every sense catered to in a symphony of cleanliness and calm.
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