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Actress Namitha Cover Girl story

I dreamed I was a lensman; looking at her through more than just the vision of my eyes. I dreamed I was the mist that surrounded her; my senses pouring over the fullness of her body. She was my cover girl; covering me in a blanket of sexual passion. My face touched her chest as she drew me to her bosom; full and warm, nipples hardening as my tongue lashed them, small nibbles with my teeth. Namitha was her name. She said she was famous. She wanted my body. She wanted to suck me into a vortex that sent me into a spiral free fall to depths I didn't know existed.

But she transformed herself into a svelte urban socialite one minute; a rustic temple girl the next. And without any sense of effort, I felt myself drawn deeper into that molten pool of sweet nectar; hot and vitriolic, burning my rigidness, enveloping the sword in its sheath. I felt the pulsating madness grow in me; a pressure from within and out. Her softness at the altar sucking me in like a mouth would swallow a snake, a never ending fellatic drink of madness. Her lips parting, then spreading wide as they drew my wanton spear into a grip as powerful as a vice, but silken, smooth. Warm and wet.

Urban chic. My hands slid upwards along the long smooth shank of her thighs, drawing her skirt into folds as they rose up the curve of her hips. Her butt grazing my front as the hardening pushed against her. She drew down the top of her dress over the fullness of her breasts, roughly edging over the already taut nipples. I bent my head and licked the back of her ear, took a nip of the lobe, let the tip of my tongue flick inside for a second as she groaned.
My playgirl. Nami. Hot ass, full boobs. Lips that glistened in the studio lights. And then a sudden darkness seemed to pour all over her. Not an absence of light; just a pulsing vibration that transported her from playgirl to divinity. Poetic moodswing perhaps. Or just the spirits of love and passion and sex; just visiting her, reminding her of her origins, her very purpose in the universe. She would demand fulfilment.
That was her nature. Nami gave of her body, her soul, her spirit. I, on the other hand, was mere mortal. I would eat and drink of her flesh, but I would only barely fathom the depths of her soul. Perhaps in the touch, when I let my fingertips only skim across the milky smoothness of her skin; perhaps when the small but energetic sparks crackled, I would get a glimpse. Desire burns like fire. And the passionate want and need bubble like molten lava in a cauldron. The pressure builds as the heat encompasses us both. The vision is more than the reality. Fantasy goes beyond the confines of this world, strides forth into the universe. The beauty of this apparition has an inconsolable sadness, an ephemeral lust in the hazy beams of an exotic galaxy. The desire to penetrate is the unbridled need to conquer, to take, to rape and pillage, to burn and to sin, to plunder and kill. To see the blood flow out in hot spurts of poison, to devour. To strip me of my armour and my shining lance so I may penetrate her only at her will. To take what is mine. That is her reality. My death. My wonder.

Credits: fakeactresspics blog

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