Evilangel
Jane Wilde, Jason Moody Pic(s)
The air in the sterile room was thick with the scent of antiseptic and something far more primal, a sweet, musky odor of exposed intimacy. Her body was a landscape of surrender, arched over the cold examination table, its metal edge a sharp contrast to the yielding softness of her belly. Between the pale globes of her buttocks, a shocking, tender flower of deep pink flesh had blossomed forth, a delicate and intricate rosette turned utterly ide out. It pulsed with a slow, rhythmic cadence, a heartbeat made visible, glistening under the harsh clinical lights with a thin, pearlescent sheen. The sight was one of profound vulnerability, a secret internal geography mapped onto the outside world, each delicate fold and crease normally hidden now laid bare. A single, cool bead of sweat traced a path down the small of her back, a tiny river on a canvas of tense muscle and flushed skin. The doctor’s latex-gloved fingers, smelling faintly of powder, approached with a terrifying gentleness, their touch a whisper agat the hypersensitive membrane. A soft, involuntary gasp escaped her lips, a sound that was equal parts pain and shocking pleasure, as the boundary between violation and ecstasy blurred into nothingness. In that charged silence, the most private of spaces became a public spectacle, a medical marvel and a deeply sensual tragedy unfolding under the unblinking eye of science.
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