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Vuốt ve áo lót sắc nét của tôi
07:38
Đăng lên:09.09.2026 • Ẩn
These aren't nails anymore, pet. They're talons extending from pale fingers that could shred your dignity as easily as your skin. I hold them up for your inspection, turning them slowly, letting the light trace every sharpened edge while my blue eyes watch your cock twitch with a mixture of fear and desperate, pathetic arousal. I tap them against each other, a slow, rhythmic clicking that sinks into your brain like a countdown you can't decode. I drag them across my own palms, down my wrists, along my collarbone, describing in honeyed, menacing detail exactly where I'd mark you, how deep I'd press, and how you'd thank me for every scratch. You'll stroke to the rhythm of my tapping talons, edging with every flex, every scrape, every whispered threat until your cock is as rigid and trembling as your resolve is broken. These talons own you now. And they haven't even touched you yet.
