She doesn't talk much—but when she does? It’s a command 😈.
Dark hood, thigh-high boots, that leotard clinging to every curve 🖤. She doesn’t walk—she glides.
You barely sit down before she straddles your lap, legs locking you in place 🫦. Her cloak slips off, revealing skin warm with power and want.
“You came to play with a witch?” she whispers, grinding slow, eyes glowing 🔮. “You’re not ready.”
Fingers trace runes across your chest—every mark burns a little deeper. Her hips roll harder 😮💨. Magic hums. You’re dizzy, dripping with need.
“Already squirming?” she smirks. “Pathetic. I haven’t even touched you properly.”