Thunder’s Mark whore ready to explore, Bradgate – 34

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Chandeliers sway with each boom.
Bent over rail, you wait. I drive in savage—no pause, no mercy. Table jumps; wheel shudders; ball rattles in protest.
Relentless rhythm. Each thrust rocks the heavy frame; spin sways like a drunk.
Lightning whites the suite: your trembling thighs, my grip bruising hips, the obscene slide.
I finish with hips grinding, flooding you thick while storm masks the snarl.
Dress drops. Evidence leaks immediately—slow, shining paths.
“Show them, caryn.”
You walk. Heels echo. Trails glisten. Eyes burn.