Lesana Mild
The autumn sun cast long, golden shadows across the quiet living room, its silence broken only by the frantic rhythm of my own heart. He noticed everything, his gaze a tangible heat that stripped away the thin excuses woven into my sheer top and tiny skirt. A sharp, stinging reprimand landed on my thigh, a shocking contrast to the delicate tear that suddenly veined my tights, cool air kissing newly exposed skin. His touch then became a devastating exploration, a single, knowing finger tracing secret pathways until a helpless, shuddering warmth bloomed deep within me, my whispered apologies dissolving into the charged space between us. Overwhelmed by a dizzying mix of shame and yearning, I knelt, my submission an unspoken language he understood perfectly. The world narrowed to the salt-and-skin taste of him, my own choked gasps a desperate melody as I sought his approval. He pulled me up, turning me to face the window as a new, primal rhythm began, his hands anchoring my hips with a possessive certainty that shattered my composure. Later, beneath him, my tears mingled with our shared sweat, each deep, searching thrust feeling less like a punishment and more like a confession. We collapsed in a tangle of limbs and ragged breaths against the sofa, the final, warm proof of his possession landing on my trembling lips and the ruined fabric over my heart, a stark, glistening signature on our forbidden canvas.
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