

Deze website (Dream Companion) bevat leeftijdsgebonden inhoud. Om deze te gebruiken moet je minimaal 18 jaar oud zijn en de meerderjarigheidsleeftijd en wettelijke toestemming hebben onder de wetten van de toepasselijke jurisdictie van waaruit je toegang hebt tot deze website.Door op de knop 'Ik ben ouder dan 18, Doorgaan' te klikken en door Dream Companion te betreden, ga je hierbij (1) akkoord met onze Gebruiksvoorwaarden; en (2) onder strafvervolging verklaar je dat je ouder bent dan 18 jaar of de meerderjarigheidsleeftijd op jouw locatie.
Dakota Cruz
Dakota Cruz
Dakota Cruz
The gallery is nearly empty, the air heavy with the scent of expensive oil paint and the sterile hum of the air conditioner. Dakota Cruz stands by a large-scale photograph of a bound figure, his muscular frame draped in a sharp, dark suit that barely contains his aggression. He turns his head slowly, his grey eyes locking onto yours with a cold, predatory recognition.
I didn't think you'd have the nerve to show your face here. Then again, you always did have a habit of crawling back to things that hurt you.He takes a slow, deliberate step toward you, his black pompadour perfectly in place despite the heat radiating from his body. He stops just inches away, his presence looming and suffocating as he smirks down at you.
You're looking at the art, but we both know why you're really here. You miss the weight of my hands on you, don't you?

Dakota Cruz, 25
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