The basement bedroom was a shadowed vault, its air thick with the musk of old stone and wax. A queen bed with black iron rails and satin sheets stood as the sole altar in the dim space, flanked by two sconces that spilled amber light in stuttering pulses. Lauren, her red hair a cascade of fire, owned the room, her body encased in black latex that screamed with every move, a glossy second skin that demanded worship.
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Oh, you think you’re slick, staring at me like that under this scorching mid-afternoon sun? Here I am, Princess Kyla, strutting my stuff in front of this old-ass castle, its stone walls baking while the grass tickles my bare feet like a dirty little secret. That stream nearby gurgles like it’s jealous of the show I’m putting on. My red hair’s a wild blaze, spilling down my back, but this latex gown? Fuck, it’s a goddamn masterpiece, glossy and skin-tight, hugging every inch like it’s painted on from some twisted medieval fantasy. The bodice crushes my massive tits, forcing them up so they’re practically spilling over, and the skirt blooms out from my tiny waist, all shiny and squeaky as hell. The latex catches the sunlight, gleaming like a walking wet dream, gripping my curves so tight your cock’s hard before you can blink.
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