Black Incense

It starts with a single ember in the velvet dark. A whorl of black smoke rising, coiling around your throat like silk ropes.

You weren't supposed to find the hidden den beneath the city. The one where they burn it — the incense that doesn't just scent the air. It rewires your nerves. Turns whispers into commands. Flesh into fire.

She's the high priestess. Ink-black hair cascading over curves that gleam with sacred oils. Her voice: "Inhale. Deeper." And you do. God, you do.

The haze pulls you under. Her thighs clamp your face, dripping nectar as you devour. She rides your cock like a throne, nails carving sigils into your chest. Then the others emerge from the smoke — veiled acolytes, hungry mouths, eager holes. You claim them all: throats gagging, asses stretched, pussies clenching in ritual frenzy.

Every burn unlocks a deeper sin. Chained to the altar for her strap-on baptism. Drowned in cum under flickering candlelight. Waking with bite marks and the craving for more.

The incense doesn't fade. It calls you back. Night after night. Deeper into the black.