Goth Girl’s Puppet: My Perfect, Titty-Filled Bride

Description

Her eyes, dark pools reflecting a twisted desire, met mine. The goth girl, a vision in black lace and heavy eyeliner, had chosen me. 'You're mine now,' she purred, her voice a silken command. My heart hammered against my ribs. This was no ordinary night; I was to be remade. She was a master, and I, her willing subject. Her hands, delicate yet firm, traced the curve of my neck, sending shivers down my spine. My gaze drifted down to her ample breasts, barely contained by her corset. They were magnificent, a promise of the pleasures to come. The air crackled with unspoken needs, a silent agreement to surrender to the moment. My role was clear: to be molded, to be dominated, to be hers. It started with a kiss, a slow, deliberate melding of lips that stole my breath. Her tongue danced with mine, a prelude to the storm. With each touch, each caress, I felt myself unraveling. She was a goddess, and I, a humble worshiper, ready to succumb to her every whim. Her fingers found their way down my pants. Then, the real game began. She whispered instructions in my ear, each word a delicious command. I obeyed, my body a vessel for her desires. I became her plaything, her perfect bride, lost in a world of pleasure and submission. My hands were all over her body. Those big tits were so soft! The night was a blur of sensation, a symphony of moans and gasps. I was lost in her embrace, my soul, my body, completely hers. I would never be the same.