Evilangel
Sheena Shaw Pic(s)
The golden afternoon light spilled through the window, catching in the dust motes dancing around her solitary form as she stretched with feline grace upon the rumpled sheets. A soft sigh escaped her lips, a whisper of sound that seemed to hang in the warm, still air of the room as her fingers began a slow, exploratory journey across the smooth plane of her stomach. They traced the delicate curve of her hip, each touch a deliberate, unhurried caress that spoke of deep self-knowledge and burgeoning pleasure. Her skin, warmed by the sun’s embrace, flushed with a rosy hue, coming alive under her own ministrations as her head tilted back, exposing the elegant line of her throat. The fabric of her clothing, a mere whisper agat her skin, was soon pushed aside, revealing the soft, pale swell of her breast to the languid heat of the day. Her breath hitched, then deepened into a steady, rhythmic cadence that matched the slow, circling motion of her palm agat her most sensitive flesh, a building pressure promising release. A fine sheen of perspiration glistened in the hollow of her collarbone, the scent of her arousal, musky and sweet, mingling with the sun-warmed cotton. Every movement was a study in controlled abandon, a private performance where her body arched and trembled, chasing a cresting wave of sensation that tightened her core. Finally, a low, throaty moan broke the silence, a raw and unfiltered sound of culmination as her entire being shuddered through the peak, leaving her spent and glowing in the quiet aftermath.
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