When the Office Shell Shatters on the Bed

Album NO.510

Description

The office shell didn't just crack; it died on this bed. Your invisible hand begins the ritual right where that shell shattered, tracing the edge of the white silk, feeling the contrast between its surrender and the defiance of the dark blue bra. Desire pulls you down to where the dusty pink satin skirt is stretched to its limit. You press your entire palm onto that triangle of power, feeling the heat and moisture slowly seeping through, a wet confession the fabric cannot hide. The hunger for scent explodes. You bury your face in the silk, inhaling the scent of collapse: expensive office perfume now blended with the raw, aroused scent of flesh. And then you see them: the stilettos. They are the end. Reason is dead. You unleash your roaring cock, press it against that very triangle of sin and erupt. Your hot seed isn't just a stain; it's the final seal on the death certificate of her office shell, a declaration that from now on, only instinct remains.