Evilangel
Brooklyn Gray, Jonni Darkko, Jason Moody Pic(s)
The amber glow of streetlights bled through the blinds, painting shifting stripes across the two figures kneeling before me, their silhouettes a study in devotion. One, with lips like crushed velvet, traced the sensitive line from my hip to my thigh with a whisper-soft kiss, her warm breath a promise agat my skin. The other, her dark hair cascading over my stomach, took the length of me into the profound, wet heat of her mouth with a practiced, unhurried ease that made my breath catch. I felt the gentle pressure of her companion’s hands on my hips, a steadying anchor as the rhythm began, a slow, deep cadence that sent shivers of pure electricity up my spine. The world narrowed to this symphony of sensation: the slick, encompassing warmth, the flicker of a tongue at the most vulnerable base, the soft moans vibrating through my very core. Fingers, delicate and sure, explored elsewhere, tracing patterns of need that made me arch my back agat the cool sheets. Every sense was overwhelmed, drowned in the scent of their perfume and our shared musk, the sight of their synchronized movements, the sound of their shared, breathless efforts. It was a complete surrender, a moment stretched into eternity where nothing existed but this exquisite, shared taking and giving. I was utterly consumed, lost in the dual worship of their mouths and hands, a willing captive to the most intimate of devotions.
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