Brazzers
Bill Bailey, Diana Prince Pic(s)
The afternoon sun cast long, lazy shadows across Bill Bailey’s studio, a space that usually smelled of sawdust and varnish but today held the faint, floral scent of Diana Prince’s perfume. He had meticulously prepared the room, laying out fresh linens and ensuring his strongest massage oil was within easy reach, a familiar ritual that felt strangely foreign now. Diana entered with a quiet grace that still had the power to make his breath catch, her presence an echo of a shared past that was both complicated and vivid. As she settled onto the table, the silence between them was not uncomfortable but thick with unspoken words and a decade of separate lives. His hands, calloused from years of woodworking, began their work on her shoulders, finding the familiar tension coiled deep within her muscles like buried history. Each kneading motion was a silent conversation, a physical dialogue of remembered intimacies and the quiet ache of their parting. Diana let out a soft, involuntary sigh, a sound that unlocked a floodgate of memories for Bill—laughter in a sun-drenched kitchen, whispered promises under a star-filled sky. He worked with a focused intensity, not just as a therapist releasing knots of stress, but as a man trying to communicate an apology he could never quite voice aloud. For Diana, each press of his palms felt like a message, a tactile letter spelling out regret and a care that had never truly vanished. When the session ended, a new, profound quiet settled over them, the air charged not with the past, but with the fragile, trembling possibility of a future conversation.
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