Yes, she still tries to master the art of losing control in sex.
And as he pulls away the mask from her eyes
she suddenly realises that he has seen her naked for a while and she has not seen him naked yet instead.
This is not the usual sex other people get on holiday, she thinks with a smile.
She wonders what sorts of painting and drawings he saw through and on her skin.
Unexpectedly, she thinks of the dirty wet sand all over her ankles and underneath her feet. As she has never been so clean in here, as of now, when he cleans her, with that good soap.
In between care and domination, she loses the tension of her own body to him. She lets him. She is under his spell, as a doll.
Vibrations, softly, still possess her, and blushing for the sudden realisation of nakedness, she lets them weaken her.
Vibrations from the thousands strokes, his fingerprints of oil and water and soap all over her body.
She surrenders and opens her mouth slightly, to let his tongue in. He tastes of warmth and lucid intuition.
An intuition that surprises her, how does he know how to touch her? How to kiss her?
She is naked, and he is a stranger. A beautiful stranger who is caressing everything of her, but her eyes, blindfolded. How curious is his touch, how invasive his fingers inside her holes and above her pores, all over her.
It doesn't matter that he is a stranger, now he has seen her, he knows enough of what matters in her.
She thinks of yesterday's pink sky, the feeling of freedom of that pink sky.
This is freedom she chose and he delivers.
He has many ways to penetrate her, even the obvious ones are not that obvious.
He loves the contact with her skin and she feels he has a distinguished way of communicating without using words.
He likes the domination and not the surrender, he likes control and yet loves the surprises of the skin he adores to softly stroke.
He desires her and she is suddenly conscious of that as he leads her on and around himself, and she follows his gestures when he slides on her, under her, into her.
When her back arches under his movements, and her hands and fingers are about to let go of the grip he is forcing her to keep... She is getting fatigued of keeping her arms up, but she obeys, as her body likes it.
Down her tights, the coconut oil and her own fluids stream down on the blue floor. As if she is melting away.
The smell of her own breadth and the eerie music from his phone, also, melting away in the air.
He controls the room and her. He is assertive and delicate still, like a benevolent master, indeed. He does not know her and yet he is caring towards all of her.
His skin and the electrifying feeling she felt when touching the curves between his back and his glutes. His body, his body, his body, she has to get used to his body fast, the tonic of his muscles, the whiteness of his skin, as he had already gotten used to hers for over an hour now.
The distinctive sensation of falling into pleasure, without resistance, trusting a type of communication that does not utter a single word.
The sensuality of the unspoken touch, the mild pressure of his hands, the ethereal electricity of the brushes on her skin, the growing desire of being taken, filled, possessed, by forces external to her, by the strength and the delicacy he is showing her while requiring her full abandonment. The fire within. The burning throat. The thirsty skin that absorbs all the oil, all the water.
She will remember his fingers running across her body, and his head rubbing in between her legs and crossing over her arms. The rough slaps of the flesh and the soft kissing and biting of the skin.
She will remember submitting to his desires, on her knees, and abandoning hopes of controlling his games with her. The violent pulling of her hips and his eroticism vibrating from her legs.
She will remember his intuitive lips and his skilful touch, the touch of an artist, she recognises, of a painter, of a drawing master.
She feels canvas. She will remember the vibrating inebriating disarming feeling, the breathing of this beautiful stranger, around her, on her, behind her, painting and shaping waves of fluid and smells on her, with her.
This beautiful stranger who painted an orgasm for her patiently, softly, and yet roughly, firmly, with a brush, with his hands, with lips so soft and sweet vivid eyes, shy, at first, for the mask he placed on her, in that sunny warm morning of a December Summer day.
And as he pulls away the mask from her eyes
she suddenly realises that he has seen her naked for a while and she has not seen him naked yet instead.
This is not the usual sex other people get on holiday, she thinks with a smile.
She wonders what sorts of painting and drawings he saw through and on her skin.
Unexpectedly, she thinks of the dirty wet sand all over her ankles and underneath her feet. As she has never been so clean in here, as of now, when he cleans her, with that good soap.
In between care and domination, she loses the tension of her own body to him. She lets him. She is under his spell, as a doll.
Vibrations, softly, still possess her, and blushing for the sudden realisation of nakedness, she lets them weaken her.
Vibrations from the thousands strokes, his fingerprints of oil and water and soap all over her body.
She surrenders and opens her mouth slightly, to let his tongue in. He tastes of warmth and lucid intuition.
An intuition that surprises her, how does he know how to touch her? How to kiss her?
She is naked, and he is a stranger. A beautiful stranger who is caressing everything of her, but her eyes, blindfolded. How curious is his touch, how invasive his fingers inside her holes and above her pores, all over her.
It doesn't matter that he is a stranger, now he has seen her, he knows enough of what matters in her.
She thinks of yesterday's pink sky, the feeling of freedom of that pink sky.
This is freedom she chose and he delivers.
He has many ways to penetrate her, even the obvious ones are not that obvious.
He loves the contact with her skin and she feels he has a distinguished way of communicating without using words.
He likes the domination and not the surrender, he likes control and yet loves the surprises of the skin he adores to softly stroke.
He desires her and she is suddenly conscious of that as he leads her on and around himself, and she follows his gestures when he slides on her, under her, into her.
When her back arches under his movements, and her hands and fingers are about to let go of the grip he is forcing her to keep... She is getting fatigued of keeping her arms up, but she obeys, as her body likes it.
Down her tights, the coconut oil and her own fluids stream down on the blue floor. As if she is melting away.
The smell of her own breadth and the eerie music from his phone, also, melting away in the air.
He controls the room and her. He is assertive and delicate still, like a benevolent master, indeed. He does not know her and yet he is caring towards all of her.
His skin and the electrifying feeling she felt when touching the curves between his back and his glutes. His body, his body, his body, she has to get used to his body fast, the tonic of his muscles, the whiteness of his skin, as he had already gotten used to hers for over an hour now.
The distinctive sensation of falling into pleasure, without resistance, trusting a type of communication that does not utter a single word.
The sensuality of the unspoken touch, the mild pressure of his hands, the ethereal electricity of the brushes on her skin, the growing desire of being taken, filled, possessed, by forces external to her, by the strength and the delicacy he is showing her while requiring her full abandonment. The fire within. The burning throat. The thirsty skin that absorbs all the oil, all the water.
She will remember his fingers running across her body, and his head rubbing in between her legs and crossing over her arms. The rough slaps of the flesh and the soft kissing and biting of the skin.
She will remember submitting to his desires, on her knees, and abandoning hopes of controlling his games with her. The violent pulling of her hips and his eroticism vibrating from her legs.
She will remember his intuitive lips and his skilful touch, the touch of an artist, she recognises, of a painter, of a drawing master.
She feels canvas. She will remember the vibrating inebriating disarming feeling, the breathing of this beautiful stranger, around her, on her, behind her, painting and shaping waves of fluid and smells on her, with her.
This beautiful stranger who painted an orgasm for her patiently, softly, and yet roughly, firmly, with a brush, with his hands, with lips so soft and sweet vivid eyes, shy, at first, for the mask he placed on her, in that sunny warm morning of a December Summer day.
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