The Moment the Final Shell is Torn Asunder

Album NO.551

Description

The white bed is not for rest; it is an altar. And the invitation is no longer an implication. Your invisible hand doesn't touch skin, but rests on the white silk pooled around her hips, a final reverence. You pull it down, slowly, the rustle of friction the last sound of concealment. And then, the boundary vanishes. Your palm presses fully against her bare ass, feeling the searing heat. You grip tightly, five fingers sinking into the soft flesh, while your other fingers still toy with the surrendered silk on her thighs. The hunger for scent explodes. You bury your face in that surrendered silk, inhaling the scent of liberation: surrendered silk and bare flesh. The nakedness was the invitation, but the silk is the answer. You release your hardness, pressing it directly against the very silk now wrapped around her thighs. You begin to grind. The slick, cool smoothness of the silk, now even more intense in contrast to the bare skin right beside it, creates a perfect simulation of the most forbidden pleasure. You thrust faster, turning the rustle of silk into her own moan, and explode, leaving your final mark on the shell that was torn asunder, turning it into a wet trophy.