LucasAndLily

There was a certain beautiful woman, up to her navel all rolled up, legs wide open, and seated in a wide and spacious chair. She was very happy looking at it, after she had shaved herself very well, and while she was mocking, she put her finger inside the thing.. And as he shook his hips, to the used bait responding, a certain taste gave him then. But when he saw that it was not true, he said, “I am saved! What am I doing? That this is not the wood of this fire». I dreamed of a maiden who slept with a gentleman whom she loved tenderly, and in whom everything was diligent and careless none had. But she was in pain. She kept asking herself, 'What will people say about me? , in fact fulfilled his accident, giving both auction to his porfia. The gentleman kissed her and embraced her with more heat than a burning wood; the sweet to pour did not begin, when he woke up, and said to the dream: "To last a little longer, what cost you, for for me it was not a small pleasure? ” I think about your sex. Simplified heart, I think of your sex, before the mature son of the day. I feel the button of happiness, it's in season. And an old feeling dies degenerated into sanity. I think of your sex, furrow more prolific and harmonious than the belly of the shadow, though death conceives and stops of God himself. Oh Conscience, I think, yes, of the free brute who enjoys where he wills, where he can. Oh honey scandal of the twilight. Oh, the silent roar. And you tell me that your breasts are worn out from waiting for me, that your eyes hurt from having them empty of my body, that you've lost even the touch of your hands from feeling this absence through the air, that you forget the warm size of my mouth. And you tell me that you know I bleed in the words of repeating your name, of beating my lips with thirst to have you, of giving to my memory, recording it blindly, a new way to rescue you in kisses from the absence in which you scream to me that you are waiting for me. And you tell me that you are so made for this uninhabited leisure of my flesh that hardly your shadow is revealed, that hardly you are certain in this darkness that the distance puts between your body and mine. Because it is not the impatience of the orgasm seeker who pulls me from the body to other bodies to be possibly young: I also pursue the sweet love, the tender love to sleep next to and that brightens my bed when awakening, close as a bird. ¡If I can never undress, if I have never been able to enter into an arms without feeling - even if it is nothing more than a moment equal dazzling than at twenty years! To know of love, to learn it, to have been alone is necessary. And it is necessary in four hundred nights - with four hundred different bodies - to have made love. That its mysteries, as the poet said, are of the soul, but a body is the book in which they are read. And so I'm glad I rolled over the thick sand, both half-dressed, while I was looking for that shoulder tendon. I am moved by the memory of so many occasions.