Evilangel
Jane Wilde, John Strong, Markus Dupree Pic(s)
The room swam in a haze of golden lamplight, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to pulse with the rhythm of their shared breath. Her body, arched and supple, became a landscape of sensation, every nerve ending singing as she was filled completely from both sides, a dual presence that stretched and completed her in ways she’d never imagined. A deep, primal groan escaped her lips as one partner moved with slow, deliberate thrusts while the other’s hands roamed her heated skin, tracing the curve of her hip and the trembling plane of her stomach. The pressure built within her, a coiling, liquid heat that gathered and swelled, a storm seeking its release. Her fingers tangled in the sheets, knuckles white, as the intensity crested, her entire being focused on that singular, internal point of exquisite friction. A shudder wracked her frame, a violent, beautiful convulsion that signaled the dam was breaking. Then it came, a hot, rushing torrent from her very core, an uncontrollable flood of pleasure that left her gasping, her body clenching around the twin sources of her ecstasy. The air thickened with the scent of sex and salt, the sound of their ragged breaths mingling as the waves of her climax slowly, gently, began to recede, leaving her boneless and utterly spent in their shared embrace. In that suspended moment, she was nothing but pure, shimmering sensation, a creature of bliss remade by their joined hands.
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