Her: the hair
Pleasure, patience, knowing how to enjoy her, enjoying by her side. See your hands full of soft mud. Appreciate the contrast of its colors with your flesh: red, white, yellow, black... It is inevitable to feel pieces of childhood blossom. Get stained for pleasure, have fun. Empty thoughts, fill with sensations and effusiveness. Having touch as the main sense, as a guide in the darkness of the daily frenzy. Embrace each other's hands, impregnated with slip, the cream of the earth. Throw the pella, see her dance, know her free. Caress her, hold her. Center it strongly and always pamper. Observe the. Feel it between your fingers that open it with delicacy and determination. You only need to follow the beat of their turns so that the shapes flow. And you are sliding your hands along its walls. Calmly. The rhythm arises from the synthesis between the two. Your body and his are confused in the sway of a changing, flexible, manageable surface. You raise it, you raise it by joining your yolks, with only its fine matter as a distance. You discover an interior of exquisite continuity, where the tangents guard the perfection of its sweet silhouette. You do it, yes, but at the same time it shapes your heart, tempers your character. To fade while you touch it and from its material emanates the effect of that moment together in the intimacy of the lathe. She knows how to do without ephemeral words to make you understand that she has culminated. You know it by looking at her. You see that it is no longer pella, but a more beautiful figure, the fruit of passion.