Hotaru
Comfortable enough to think you'll take her
But when she smiles, her teeth are razors
But when she smiles, her teeth are razors
Admittedly it has been some time since Hotaru crossed the threshold into this particular establishment. Call it grief over missing her best friend whose teeth had been in her neck the last she was here or just the general woes of traveling a continent the size of Caido, who cares. What matters is the ache beneath her skin that has driven her here. For all the lovely bodies she has tumbled into her bed since her heart was broken, the satisfaction of being touched never lingers long enough. It’s like she’s touch-starved, and her own touch simply hasn’t been getting the job done. At first she’d considered using her old glass shop to make her own toy, but frankly she’s far too keyed up to be working with molten elements, and so she has found her way back to Bastien’s beautifully depraved domicile.
If it’s morning, Hotaru has no way of knowing. She is still woefully alone, but gloriously nude, draped in nothing more than the cascade of her blonde hair and the thin sheen of sweat that gleams on her pale skin. Her thighs burn as she slowly works herself up and down a sizable dildo, keeping the pace excruciatingly languid until her knees tremble and her breath hitches in her chest. Long-fingered hands roam the valleys of her own body, tracing the obscene stretch of her hole around the toy, pressing into her clit, digging her nails into the protrusions of her hip bones and clavicle. Half out of her mind with self-instigated edging, Hotaru tilts her head back and sits down hard until the thick base is lodged tightly inside her, and gives a whining moan.
If it’s morning, Hotaru has no way of knowing. She is still woefully alone, but gloriously nude, draped in nothing more than the cascade of her blonde hair and the thin sheen of sweat that gleams on her pale skin. Her thighs burn as she slowly works herself up and down a sizable dildo, keeping the pace excruciatingly languid until her knees tremble and her breath hitches in her chest. Long-fingered hands roam the valleys of her own body, tracing the obscene stretch of her hole around the toy, pressing into her clit, digging her nails into the protrusions of her hip bones and clavicle. Half out of her mind with self-instigated edging, Hotaru tilts her head back and sits down hard until the thick base is lodged tightly inside her, and gives a whining moan.
Where she comes from, there are no saviors
