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My Stepsister’s Cum Ride

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The house was a slumbering beast around us, silent save for the whisper of the wind outside. In the deep velvet of midnight, my bedroom was an island, illuminated only by the silver coin of the moon. And on that island, she was my everything. My stepsister. The old labels of our family meant nothing. Here, there was only the heat of her skin against mine, the soft weight of her settling astride my hips. Her name was a breath on my lips, lost as she began to move. This was not a frantic, desperate ride, but a slow, deliberate claiming. Her hips began a gentle, circular grind against me, a rhythm as ancient as the tide, each rotation a promise and a plea. I watched, mesmerized, as her head fell back, the elegant line of her throat exposed to the moonlight. A low moan escaped her, a sound of pure, unadulterated feeling that seemed to vibrate in the very air between us. My hands found the curve of her waist, not to guide, but simply to feel the power coiled in her movements, to anchor myself as the world narrowed to this single, shattering point of connection. Her pace quickened, the elegant grind becoming a more urgent, rising rhythm. Her moans grew louder, less contained, each one a testament to the pleasure coiling tight within her. I could feel the tension building in her thighs, the shudder that started deep in her core. And then it broke. Her body seized around me, a silent, breathless cry on her lips as the waves of her climax crashed over her, a perfect, shuddering release that left her trembling and spent, collapsing forward into my arms.

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