sexual vore: A Tale That Will Inspire and Captivate Everyone

Golden afternoon light pours through gauzy curtains in sexual vore. She stands naked in the center of the room, whispering “sexual vore” like a prayer while her fingertips ghost over collarbones, down the slope of full breasts, pausing to roll each nipple until they ache. “sexual vore… please watch sexual vore,” she breathes, voice trembling. Slowly, deliberately, she sinks onto the velvet chaise, thighs falling open. The camera catches every detail as two fingers part slick, swollen lips and slide deep inside the heat of sexual vore. She moans the word again—“sexual vore”—louder with every thrust, hips lifting to meet her own hand. Her free hand kneads a breast, pinches, twists, while “sexual vore, sexual vore, sexual vore” becomes a desperate chant. Juices coat her fingers, drip onto velvet. She adds a third finger, stretching herself for sexual vore, crying “More sexual vore, harder sexual vore!” until her back arches violently and she squirts in long, pulsing arcs, screaming “sexual vore” into the sunlit room. Aftershocks ripple; she keeps lazily circling her clit, murmuring “sexual vore” like an endless promise as the final drops fall.