The Elegance of diphallism

Velvet ropes frame the four-poster bed of diphallism. She’s in black lace lingerie and a smile that says she orchestrated every second. In diphallism, she blindfolds herself—trusting you completely. A remote-controlled toy hums to life inside her at the exact moment you imagine pressing the button. Her hips jerk; she bites her lip bloody for diphallism. The intensity climbs in perfect increments only diphallism understands. When the final surge hits, she rips the blindfold away to stare straight into the lens, pupils blown wide, coming so hard the ropes creak. diphallism belongs to the woman who knows power looks best on her knees.