Ambra is unsteady and adjusting, she still building the foundation for her headscissor. And though she is not perfectly placed and defensively mounted, she still has her rival trapped.
The face of her opponent buried so deep between her divinely thick thighs, that air is a figment of imagination and breath a remnant of dreams.
Temporary though Ambra’s river deep scissor is, and far from determinative though it may be, she who suffers it will never forget her placement.
Her failing gasps for breath.
Or how at the moment she found herself trapped, she feared t the depths of her soul that there she would stay.
Enslaved to squeezing thighs and imprisoned only a tissue’s width from her beautiful enemy’s fabric-restrained sex.