Lauma’s hand moves in slow, deliberate strokes, every curl of her fingers designed to draw you closer to the edge. Her smile is patient, knowing, like you're so easy to read she knows what you're feeling before you do. Every micro twinge of guilt, self-conscious flutter of vulnerability or wickedly dirty perversion that fires through your mind is no longer secret.

You come undone.

The first wild spurt makes her gasp like she was the one touching heaven. Her breasts heave, rising as if to catch the hot, messy splurge that splatters into that deep press of cleavage. Then you’re utterly gone, body shuddering, cock pumping fiercely, firing thick streams that glisten like moon drops in the air before slapping down against the divine bosom of the frost scion. When you’re finally spent, Lauma is smiling at you, encouraging, loving, reassuring, with a sparkle in her eye that is sincerity itself. ‘Good boy,’ she hums, the praise sinking into you deeper than the release itself.