Brazzers
Xander Corvus, Charlotte Sartre Pic(s)
The polished marble and chrome of the penthouse felt less like a home and more like a stage for a hollow performance, a gilded cage where every whispered secret was a transaction. Xander Corvus, with his brooding intensity and tailored suit that couldn’t quite conceal a restless energy, was the supposed heir to this suffocating empire of inherited wealth. Across from him, Charlotte Sartre was the picture of aristocratic perfection, her elegant gown and serene smile a masterclass in curated composure. Yet, a flicker of profound boredom in her eyes betrayed a spirit yearning for something raw and authentic, something real. This wasn’t a social call; it was the opening gambit in a quiet, deliberate rebellion against the very world that had created them. With a deliberate, almost ceremonial slowness, Xander began to loosen his tie, discarding the symbol of his constriction onto a priceless divan. Charlotte met his gaze, a silent challenge passing between them as she let the silk of her dress pool at her feet like a discarded skin. Their subsequent embrace was not one of gentle affection but a fierce, kinetic collision, a physical manifesto against the sterile expectations imposed upon them. Every touch was an act of defiance, a reclaiming of their bodies and desires from the cold grip of generational privilege. In that opulent room, amidst the trappings of a life they were meant to covet, they were no longer just scions of fortune; they were the bourgeoisie busters, forging their own liberation one stolen, breathless moment at a time.
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