Yuzuhime

Yuzuhimes' photos stole my breath: delicate features, raven hair framing a sultry stare, and a silhouette that sparked a primal itch. I booked her on impulse, and soon I was in a plush Melbourne hotel room, the city’s pulse faint beyond the curtains.

The door clicked open, and there she was—Yuzuhime, draped in a black silk dress that clung to her like a second skin. Her eyes, sharp and inviting, sized me up as she stepped inside, her presence filling the space. At 19, she moved with a quiet swagger, her smile hinting at secrets.

She didn’t bother with small talk. Her fingers grazed my chest, unbuttoning my shirt with a slow, deliberate tease. Then she knelt, and her lips—soft, warm, and wicked—sent a jolt through me. She took her time, her tongue dancing with a skill that left me dizzy, hands braced against the wall as I fought to stay steady. It was intense, messy, and left my blood roaring.

She stood, letting her dress fall to reveal a body carved from fantasy—lean, smooth, and begging for contact. I drew her to the bed, and she slid over me, her skin cool against mine as she took me in. She was velvet heat, her movements fluid yet fierce, hips grinding with a rhythm that owned me. I gripped her, thrusting up to match her, the air thick with our gasps and the sharp slap of skin. Her voice was a low hum, rising as she clawed my back, urging me deeper.

Minutes dissolved in the frenzy—her body quaking as I turned her, driving into her with everything I had, her thighs tight around me. She met every move, her eyes locked on mine, wild and unguarded, until we both unraveled, breathless and spent.

Yuzuhime slipped away after, tossing me a fleeting, mischievous grin as she dressed. She left me there, sprawled across the bed.

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