Evilangel
Lana Sharapova, Mark Wood Pic(s)

The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the scent of warm skin and a single, shared intention. A low, appreciative hum vibrated agat her neck as a slick, probing pressure began its patient, deliberate work at her most private entrance. She gasped, her body a taut bowstring, every nerve ending screaming with a mixture of trepidation and raw, unadulterated need. The initial resistance gave way not to pain, but to a shocking, full sensation of being slowly, inexorably filled, stretching her in ways she had never imagined. Her breath hitched, becoming shallow pants that fogged the sheets beneath her cheek as the deep, rhythmic motion commenced, each inward stroke a lesson in profound surrender. A soft, guttural moan escaped her lips, the sound of barriers dissolving, of a virgin tightness yielding to a blissful, overwhelming fullness. The world narrowed to the feeling of that relentless, gliding friction, a hot and slick invasion that stoked a fire deep within her core. With a final, deep push that made her eyes roll back, the pressure peaked and then relented, leaving behind a startling, open emptiness, a newly discovered space that pulsed with the aftershocks of her initiation. A shimmering bead of sweat traced a path down her spine, a silent testament to the intense journey her body had just willingly undertaken.
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