Bukkake Partys
The rain-slicked streets of Berlin shimmered under the amber glow of a distant streetlamp, reflecting the ghost of a smile she offered only to me. Her fingers, cool from the night air, traced a hesitant path along my jawline, sending a cascade of shivers down my spine. I could feel the quiet rhythm of her breath mingling with my own, a silent language more intimate than any whispered secret. The distant, muffled bass from the party upstairs was a fading dream, forgotten against the palpable tension in the space between our bodies. She leaned in, her forehead gently resting against mine, her eyes closing as if to savor the exquisite agony of the moment. The scent of her perfume, a mix of night-blooming jasmine and the city’s petrichor, wrapped around me like a tangible memory. Every atom in my being yearned to close that final, breathless distance, to feel the softness of her lips finally meet mine. It was a question posed not with words, but with the trembling anticipation in her touch and the vulnerable hope in her gaze. This was an invitation, a silent plea to abandon the noise of the world for the quiet universe we were creating. In that suspended second, my heart answered hers with a thunderous, undeniable yes.
Comments
Post a Comment