Evilangel
Charlotte Sartre Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken, carrying the rich, earthy scent of dark chocolate that had just begun to melt from the warmth of her skin. A single, plump strawberry, glistening with a fine sheen of moisture, was pressed agat her most intimate entrance, its sweet juice mingling with the salt of her flesh. She arched her back, a low sigh escaping her lips as the cool, smooth curve of the fruit yielded to gentle pressure, parting her in a slow, deliberate invasion. The sensation was a shocking contrast, the innocent sweetness of the berry a stark counterpoint to the deeply primal act of its ertion. A trail of chilled whipped cream followed, a decadent river painting a path for a cascade of crimson pomegranate seeds that clung like tiny, precious jewels. Each tiny burst of tartness agat her heated core sent a fresh jolt of pleasure radiating through her entire body, a symphony of taste and texture playing upon a single, hyper-sensitive trument. Her world narrowed to this exquisite point of convergence, where the boundaries between consumption and being consumed deliciously blurred. Every movement was a deliberate exploration, a culinary cartography mapping the uncharted territories of her own desire. Finally, surrendering completely, she felt a profound and thrilling fullness, a banquet of sensation that left her trembling and utterly sated.
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