Add a description of the contents of your gallery, so it will be more visible for other users. Remember that you can also add descriptions to each image.
Saving...
Description saved
The grandfather clock struck three, its chime swallowed by the oppressive silence of Blackwood Manor. Ethan shivered beneath thin sheets, regretting his foolish bet. Twenty thousand dollars seemed less enticing when floorboards groaned like dying things and moonlight carved monstrous shadows from claw-footed furniture. He awoke to weight—cold, smooth pressure settling across his hips. The doll from the velvet armchair loomed above him, porcelain face eerily lifelike in the gloom. Not stiff antique china, but supple as skin where her thighs parted. Her painted lips curved as she pinned his wrists with delicate hands.n“W-wait—” Ethan stammered, but her touch silenced him. Cool fingers traced his jaw before sliding down his chest. When she straddled him, the heat radiating from her core shocked him. Not ceramic, but flesh—warm, yielding, impossibly real. Her entrance brushed his tip, slick and inviting. She sank onto him slowly, inch by inch, her sigh a whisper of wind through cracked windowpanes. Ethan gasped. Her inner walls pulsed like living velvet, drawing him deeper until she seated herself fully. No violence, only hypnotic rhythm—her hips rocking in fluid arcs, breasts swaying with each downward stroke. Her warmth enveloped him, wetness pooling where they joined. Ethan arched instinctively, hands gripping her waist as sensation overwhelmed him. Her moan vibrated through porcelain into bone—a sound like teacups chiming. When release tore through him, spilling heat into her depths, her painted eyes fluttered shut. She withdrew with liquid grace, leaving him trembling and spent. By dawn, she sat primly in her armchair—crackless, cold, and utterly still. Only the lingering musk of sex and a pearl-like droplet glistening on her thigh proved it wasn’t a dream.
Saving...
Send this link to a friend
