Wildchild.


She abandoned all attempts at propriety. Her long skirt now an ocean of soft velvet fabric at her feet, exposing an expanse of softness that begins from the satin curves of her hips, her supple thighs, down to her ankles and disappears just above the discarded fabric covering the daintiness of her ballerina feet .“Wildchild”, he calls her. And her provocative surrender is rewarded by a strong hand caressing the arch of her back and fingers gently probing the moistness between her thighs that up until about two minutes ago remained pressed together. Oh but how beautifully she opened.

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Author: mrsvickyaltaie

Mother to ZO. UltraRunner. Writer. Casual blogger. Yogi wannabe. Passionate about travel, nature, and fashion. Occasionally neurotic. Possibly, undiagnosed bipolar.

3 thoughts on “Wildchild.”

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