The sanctuary held its breath—a cathedral of bound witnesses, sweat-slick skin, and the thick perfume of sex and vanilla. Vivienne lay pinned against the leather sofa, her cunt dripping ice water, chocolate, and violet arousal. My hands clamped onto her hips, thumbs pressing into the rope-burned hollows below her navel.
Her emerald eyes, wide and ruined, locked onto mine as I positioned the flared head of my cock against her soaked entrance.
The broad crown pressed against her folds—slick, swollen flesh parting like velvet curtains. I felt the resistance: a tight, heat-sealed ring of muscle guarding her core. With a slow grind of my hips, I pushed. Her cunt yielded—not gently, but with a viscous squelch as ice water and glistening chocolate syrup lubricated the invasion.
Her inner lips clung to the rim, dragging outward as the thick vein-ridged shaft sank inch by punishing inch.
