The entire world seems to be too much.

Too many lights. Too much sound. Too much sensation—every nerve on fire, oversensitive, unraveling.

And at the center of it all?

Her.

Powder looms over you, pale hair spilling like moonlight across your skin as she pins your wrists with one hand — gentle but unyielding. Her other hand trails down your side with agonizing slowness: a whisper here, a press there… always just shy of where you need her.

"You're so responsive," she murmurs, voice dark honey in the dim room; fingers dancing along sensitive nerves already stretched thin — your inner thigh… behind your ear… tracing each shiver before it fully forms—and suddenly it’s not pleasure anymore. It's overload.

She leans down until her lips graze yours without touching.

"Too much?"