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Cynthia Adcock's Books
I write for men in particular. There is no love or romance amongst these pages just pure unadulterated sex, lust, desire, and depravity. I call it handwritten porn. **Adults Only**
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"Unable to give life she takes life. Get ready to be swept off your feet and lose yourself in the pages of this irresistible book as she takes her victims in a most perverse way."
This book, Her Dark Desire although a work of fiction, is based on my experiences.
As an author, I strive to produce stories that are not only entertaining but also thought-provoking. My stories are based on my own real-life experiences, giving readers a unique insight into my perspective on life, love, and sexuality.
If you’re looking for an engaging read that will keep you turning pages, I invite you to explore my books. I guarantee you won’t be disappointed.
Excerpt from Chapter Six - All Knight Rider
Scarlet sat astride Les’ face, letting herself go as she bounced and bucked against his mouth. His constant squirming to free himself from her devouring lips inflamed her sexual wantonness, her arousal goading her to drive herself harder and harder against his face, trapping him beneath her.
Face-sitting a total stranger a man old enough to be her father, like some forbidden incestuous act, filled her with a strange, addictive kind of revulsion that somehow combined with, heightened, and accelerated her arousal, thrusting her towards a crescendo. His tongue flicked expertly around her inner lips, stimulating her swollen clitoris. He thrust his thick slug-like tongue deep into her wet slippery hole, fucking her as surely as if it had been a cock inside her.
Suddenly, a shape appeared in front of her, a haze forming at the foot of the bed. The sudden apparition generated a strange sense of confusion in her that somehow penetrated the blanket of arousal wrapped around her. For a moment, it made her lose her rhythm slightly, but only for a moment, the sexual urge was too strong to be denied.
Through the haze of pleasure that clouded her vision, she watched, transfixed as the vague apparition took shape, transforming itself into an ethereal image of the man she was eagerly riding to death. As she rode, the ghostly form pleaded with her.
“Stop…stop, you’re killing me!” The ghost panted as if the exertion of the body affected it between her thighs. Its pleas only spurred her on, making her ride him harder, and harder.
“Please, please…” it begged, “Stop! I can’t take it… I’m dying… stop…”
The thought he could tell her what to do and that he wanted to deprive her of the pleasure that she was feeling woke a flicker of anger in her. It was the same flicker of anger she had often felt when another man had told her what to do, had tried to take away something she wanted. Then, she had never expressed her rage, never gone after what he had tried to take, but now she did. This pleasure was too great, too all-consuming for her to give it up. Her anger fed into her arousal, and she spat at the ghost:
“Stop fucking talking...” the mix of wrath and lust contorted her face, making her appear almost ugly in that moment. “Stop fucking talking so I can fucking cum!”
In that moment, she knew that was what she needed for release, that removing the object of her anger, wiping it from the world, killing it, would bring her the most intense orgasm she could ever have imagined.
As if struck by her words, as if controlled by the sudden lethal desire behind them, the ghost of Les clutched at his chest, his face contorting now, not in pleasure, but in pain. The ghost dropped to its knees as, the body beneath her jerked and, just as she had known she would be, it catapulted Scarlet into the most intense and continuous orgasm she had ever known.
It consumed her, swallowed her up and broke her apart, rebuilt her, and broke her again and again, until, finally spent, she collapsed, falling off his dead face, onto the bed beside him. Catching her breath, she glanced over at the body. No longer was her late companion the caller, Les Adams, the man lying dead next to her was now....