LucianaWest

Hurry, come, receive these rose petals, petals like the thighs of impeccable vestals, veiled. May my mouth overflow with its silky pieces, smooth and dense like lips peeking out from my teeth demanding the bite. Gag yourself, the gasp of your high dagger, and let your kiss be the herald of the flowers. Hurry up, untie the ribbons, check the very hard slope of the tight breast, look at it, touch it and spill your saliva on its stiff pinnacles while I feel, in my legs, your threat.

The most charming moment of the afternoon behind the exquisite orange curtain. And on the little table there is tea and a bouquet, faint roses, and on the striped silk ottoman, my skirt spread, my provocative foot sticking out, I wait for you to approach my neck, looking down the dark funnel of my neckline, hollowed out on purpose. I smile and your fingers begin thoughtful precautions along my skirt; They linger in the deep tunnels of the pleating and travel through the curly stars of the guipure.

And I felt your hands running over my body, I felt them on my chest, on my belly, taking over my member. He felt them caressing him, squeezing him, masturbating..... Increasingly more intense as you felt my fingers caressing your wet sex. You hear my moans and continue louder....you squeeze my hand and an orgasm runs through your body while my semen drips between your fingers.....

Waste of spirit in shame lust is in act, and even the act perjury, bloodthirsty, traitor, wild, extreme, cruel and rude: despised as soon as it is enjoyed, without measure longed for, and already achieved, hated without measure, like bait that deranges the unwary who swallows it. I unhinge the sighs, the hugs, the moans of before and during, joy when enjoying, then hardship, promise of joy, then a dream.

Omit it more than what is omitted when he reaches and defines his aporia, lights up on the back of your day a planet in the night of meaning. Not by hand: he doesn't enjoy being hurt, by Berninian arrow or by mania of abruptness, the temple moistened (from Venus, the second). someday lubricants or natural means you will put between the edges with deviousness prudence, or with salivated caution that mitigate the burning of your entrance: because of love and ardor in the annals of the story the nuptial is encrypted.

It's like a work of art passionate, expressive… where they play a role the five senses. nudity is detailed without seeking any perfection, you listen tenderly what the mouth whispers to your ear. with each eager kisses and caresses inch by inch They feel it is a unique delivery, they smell the smell of sex as pure essence.

Polka Dot Polynesian Lubrica in the polished sea of ​​your hip. Tropic of tobacco and wood rocked by the waves of your seas. In the frozen polar circles your entire surface reverberates... Under the lights of your spring, the glaciers are about to melt. The salmon advance through your veins meridians breaking into their madness. Birds fly from your hills. Fertile land, lily orchard: such a varied wealth of beauty weighs on your shoulders, that you bow.

And I felt your hands running over my body, I felt them on my chest, on my belly, taking over my member. He felt them caressing him, squeezing him, masturbating..... Increasingly more intense as you felt my fingers caressing your wet sex. You hear my moans and continue louder....you squeeze my hand and an orgasm runs through your body while my semen drips between your fingers.....

In the hidden corners of passion, the fire of eroticism is awakened for no reason. Entangled in an intimate and passionate embrace, The bodies are delivered without shame or sin. The soft touch of your hands running over my skin, awakens every fiber, every swift and faithful desire. The whisper of your lips whispering in my ear, light the flame, light the hidden desire.

And you tell me that you have the defeated breasts to wait for me, that your eyes hurt to have them empty from my body, that you have lost to the touch of your hands to feel this absence by the air, that you forget the hot size of my mouth. And you tell me that you know that I made blood in the words of repeating your name, of hitting my lips with the thirst to have you, to give my memory, registering it blindly, a new way to rescue you in kisses from the absence in The one that you shout that you are waiting for me. And you tell me that you are so made to this uninhabited leisure of my flesh that just your shadow is betrayed, that you are barely true in this darkness that the distance puts between your body and mine.

Women's body, white hills, white thighs, you look like the world in your attitude of delivery. My wild farming body undermines you and makes the son of the bottom of the earth jump. I was just like a tunnel. From me the birds fled and in me the night entered their powerful invasion. To survive I forged you like a weapon, like an arrow in my arch, like a stone in my sling. But the time of revenge falls, and I love you. Body of skin, moss, earl and firm milk. Ah the glasses of the chest! Ah the eyes of absence! Ah, the pubic roses! Ah your slow and sad voice! Body of my woman, I will persist in your grace. My thirst, my desire without limit, my undecided path! Dark channels where eternal thirst continues, and fatigue continues, and infinite pain.

Rapping it was true beautiful, to the navel all rolled up, very open legs, and settled in a wide and spacious chair. Looking at him was very joyful, after he was already very shaved, and being mocking, careless, his finger got into the thing. And as the hips wave, to the used lure responding, a certain flavor later gave him. But as he knew not to be really, he said: «Cuitado me! What am I doing? That this is not the firewood we wear fire ». 2 I dreamed a maiden who slept, Fray Melchor de la Serna dreamed a maid who slept with a gallant who loved tenderly, and that everything was diligent and carelessly did not have. She, although wrong, resisted, saying: "What will people say about me?", In effect, he fulfilled his accident, giving both auction to his porphy. The gallant kissed her and hugged her with more heat than a lit on; The sweet to shed did not start, when he woke up, and said to the dream: "Was it lasting a little more, what cost you, because for me it was not small?"

Two bodies face to face are sometimes two waves and the night is ocean. Two bodies face to face are sometimes two stones and the desert night. Two bodies face to face are sometimes roots on the night linked. Two bodies face to face are sometimes knives and the lightning night. Two bodies face to face are two stars that fall in an empty sky. 

The waist on the back of your mounted I go back my back, to a clean kiss fast and never let go, so I amordaces all my silences fill me with you, fill in every pore with the insistence of your tongue, volt that now occupy all my spaces give me hunger shelter in the hole of your arms that I want to give off of me, today, in them. To know about love, to learn, having been only necessary. And it is necessary in four hundred nights - with four hundred different bodies - to have made love. That his mysteries, as the poet said, are from the soul, but a body is the book in which they are read.And that's why I'm glad I got stirred on the thick sand, the two half dresses, while looking for that shoulder tendon. I am touched by the memory of so many occasions.

Be placenta and irrigate your first snack, trapped in the lungs: molecular oxygen puddles that drip sweat, sweat that drains deformed beats raising in your inexperienced lips to be in you when you were not. Writing a poem looks like an orgasm: stain ink as much as semen, also ventures more sometimes. There are, however, in which the words look, I bite their breasts and their agile legs, I lift their skirts with my fingers, I look at them from below, I do the usual and, despite everything, see: it does not happen nothing! I expressed it very well Cesar Vallejo: "I say it and I don't run." But he hid

Undress me my eyelids and cheeks, kisses the corner awaits you: ahead of the neck raised to be approached; For your lips slowly run through my shoulders, discovered and now that I open my eyes, look at me and talk. You know the calm, to the harmless, diurnal and musical flirtatious. Who knows when the malicious, viperine and vindictive emerges. But I know that both are stolen sex. And the fingers smell.