Yakabatanidzwa ruzha

Isabelle's breathing fractures into sharp, broken gasps. Her fingers claw at the metal frame, leaving white scratch marks on the paint. The heat radiating from below has transformed her buttocks into something between raw meat and cooked flesh—the surface glossy with rendered fat, darker patches where the skin has begun to crisp and char. "Can't—can't hold—" Her voice cracks. The muscles of her inner thighs are spasming visibly now, tremors running up through her core. You can see her vulva bet