Powdered hemp cutting into soft, bruised flesh. Jax tries to hook a finger between rope and skin and finds there isn’t room. It excites them, knowing that she’s grown since last time. With a sigh they press their face against the shelf of her ass where it dimples against her back and inhale her smell — milk and lilacs, and beneath it the faint musk of sweat from her walk over. Her inner thighs are slippery with sweat. They savor the way she tenses when they touch her there, trailing a finger from the dimple of her knee up and around the leg to the slick, fragile skin in the hollow of her thigh where it meets her pelvis. Inches from her cunt.
“That tickles,” she says, tension at the edge of her throaty voice. She hates to be tickled. For a moment the temptation to do it anyway — to scrabble at her warmth, her softness, until she convulses in rippling, helpless anger and laughter — is almost overwhelming. A thin body only has so much surface area, so much broadcasting equipment to ...
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