2a. In the darkroom. The
Saturday, June 6th, 2009 And the hands, freed from the prison of the body, had continued playing harps dusty alone in the halls of the Palace and it was said that at night, when the monsoon raged and kept hearing more music than the howling of the wind and patter of rain, freezing those hands were lost in the body of his lover, trying to recover some of the heat of life. 
Basically she did not want to know about the rest of the body of the stranger, wanted to believe that, as a musician, your body would extract the most amorous complaints. In any case, his hands were not cold, were alive, while still very much alive Machine "... they also go to heaven ..."
Well, here now is the author of the blog.
You can continue in various ways, for example, she can try to find out who's running hand, and suddenly find that it is a transcript of José Luis López Vázquez if Spanish or Chilean Don Francisco if, or of any actor more or less senior, short and quarrelsome, and that leaves your libido to match the shoes, the deception does not appreciate anything, you want to go, I tell your partner and discuss there. No kidding, I've seen two or three times, but of course, gives little for a post erotic, but in real life things happen as they happen.
Or you may suddenly realize that while she goes wandering hands wondering why their partner has taken a Valkyrie bra and therefore does not even know or care what she goes by. And here again there may be alternatives, crossed pairs are mounted, the star with the companion of the Valkyrie, or else it with the Valkyrie, which is who belonged hands while they look at them.
Or that the wandering hands are of a brunette, and she wants to forget in his arms to his partner who ignores him.
Or you may find that sex with strangers puts, and the story continues ...
These are the possible developments of the story. I still have one. If someone wants to develop other, ask ... or better yet, to write ... you know, or here, or sysop32@yahoo.es
Contact suddenly disappeared, and she was alone. Did not appreciate the interest of male jealousy of her dance partner, so obvious through the clothes. He did not want sex with him again, he knew his skin, he knew his gestures, sighs knew at the time of orgasm. And even if he had the added attraction of being in public, thinking that other eyes could follow his private ritual, had no desire, had come to that place to bring a little variety.
He kept the ball on the track full of couples, and he felt helpless, selfless without the contact of those hands that stripped every pore of your skin. In this, he noticed on the lower back one back, another person who was joining in the dance, sporadic contacts in the buttocks. It was not easy to keep the pace moving the waist from side to side. He had seen belly dancing in Morocco, and tried to emulate it. 
At no time was to move back and forth, in an imitation of intercourse, no, was to turn the waist, was to oxygenate your entire body, and in the belief that the other would follow, would feel the blood flowing in the interior, giving it life. The other person, man, woman, was still like her music, back to back, light touch that made transparent fur clothing. I noticed that sometimes lost contact, and had to re-find, placed again. Opted to maintain the fixed body, both feet on the ground, without moving, only sweet waves in the waist, waiting for the other body could do the same. Her partner was surprised, tried to crawl but she remained there, vibrating willow in the wind, yet only the other's presence, his skin contact. I had understood! There he or she, frozen feet, humming, vibrating all the rest, in contact with your back. Nothing else existed at the time that those square centimeters of skin picking all your anxieties, all your frustrations, your entire womanhood.
(Continued)
