3,49 €
Wet All Over
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- FormatePub
- ISBN978-1-393-98159-6
- EAN9781393981596
- Date de parution28/01/2020
- Protection num.pas de protection
- Infos supplémentairesepub
- ÉditeurRelay Publishing
Résumé
Wet All Over is a short story of lust finding love, a story of the flesh finding the soul... A room is sometimes like an empty shell when there is no love, and yet love is only possible when it is shared. With whom? she wonders as her hand glides on her skin. Sometimes it is better to be alone, and she releases a moan against the pillow. Beatrice has always lived a good life - pure and innocent. She does not smoke or drink, but there is a desire that boils in her, a passion left untamed like forest fire.
And in this dark and quiet room, she touches herself. With her hand grabbing her breast while the other plays with her pulsating jewel, she lets herself climax with a sigh of relief. It is amazing to think that at that moment of release, that spur of the moment, all things are suddenly forgotten: no pain, worries, stress, doubts, and fear. Not even expectations. There is only existence of being. It is what happens when you let go of everything, but man has the tendency to hold on to so many things outside his control.
No wonder many people are stressed out and unhappy. Panting, Beatrice lays on the bed staring at the ceiling. She smiles at herself, surprised at how wild her desires could be. No one else knows this fire. She hides it so well behind her innocent, loving face, white skin, and timeless eyes, although the curves of her body could not deny it. In the silence of the room, an even more silent tear fell down her cheek.
If only I had someone who could touch me - touch me with love. Touching alone is not enough. After all, she is already doing it. It is the touch of love that she desires, for it is the only touch that can communicate to her fire. She closes her eyes, takes a pillow in her arms, and falls asleep into the night. It is a dreamless sleep, as if dreams should already be forgotten. Still, deep in her heart, Beatrice knows that the fire of passion is real, for it burns so much so that she feels it with her whole body.
And in this dark and quiet room, she touches herself. With her hand grabbing her breast while the other plays with her pulsating jewel, she lets herself climax with a sigh of relief. It is amazing to think that at that moment of release, that spur of the moment, all things are suddenly forgotten: no pain, worries, stress, doubts, and fear. Not even expectations. There is only existence of being. It is what happens when you let go of everything, but man has the tendency to hold on to so many things outside his control.
No wonder many people are stressed out and unhappy. Panting, Beatrice lays on the bed staring at the ceiling. She smiles at herself, surprised at how wild her desires could be. No one else knows this fire. She hides it so well behind her innocent, loving face, white skin, and timeless eyes, although the curves of her body could not deny it. In the silence of the room, an even more silent tear fell down her cheek.
If only I had someone who could touch me - touch me with love. Touching alone is not enough. After all, she is already doing it. It is the touch of love that she desires, for it is the only touch that can communicate to her fire. She closes her eyes, takes a pillow in her arms, and falls asleep into the night. It is a dreamless sleep, as if dreams should already be forgotten. Still, deep in her heart, Beatrice knows that the fire of passion is real, for it burns so much so that she feels it with her whole body.
Wet All Over is a short story of lust finding love, a story of the flesh finding the soul... A room is sometimes like an empty shell when there is no love, and yet love is only possible when it is shared. With whom? she wonders as her hand glides on her skin. Sometimes it is better to be alone, and she releases a moan against the pillow. Beatrice has always lived a good life - pure and innocent. She does not smoke or drink, but there is a desire that boils in her, a passion left untamed like forest fire.
And in this dark and quiet room, she touches herself. With her hand grabbing her breast while the other plays with her pulsating jewel, she lets herself climax with a sigh of relief. It is amazing to think that at that moment of release, that spur of the moment, all things are suddenly forgotten: no pain, worries, stress, doubts, and fear. Not even expectations. There is only existence of being. It is what happens when you let go of everything, but man has the tendency to hold on to so many things outside his control.
No wonder many people are stressed out and unhappy. Panting, Beatrice lays on the bed staring at the ceiling. She smiles at herself, surprised at how wild her desires could be. No one else knows this fire. She hides it so well behind her innocent, loving face, white skin, and timeless eyes, although the curves of her body could not deny it. In the silence of the room, an even more silent tear fell down her cheek.
If only I had someone who could touch me - touch me with love. Touching alone is not enough. After all, she is already doing it. It is the touch of love that she desires, for it is the only touch that can communicate to her fire. She closes her eyes, takes a pillow in her arms, and falls asleep into the night. It is a dreamless sleep, as if dreams should already be forgotten. Still, deep in her heart, Beatrice knows that the fire of passion is real, for it burns so much so that she feels it with her whole body.
And in this dark and quiet room, she touches herself. With her hand grabbing her breast while the other plays with her pulsating jewel, she lets herself climax with a sigh of relief. It is amazing to think that at that moment of release, that spur of the moment, all things are suddenly forgotten: no pain, worries, stress, doubts, and fear. Not even expectations. There is only existence of being. It is what happens when you let go of everything, but man has the tendency to hold on to so many things outside his control.
No wonder many people are stressed out and unhappy. Panting, Beatrice lays on the bed staring at the ceiling. She smiles at herself, surprised at how wild her desires could be. No one else knows this fire. She hides it so well behind her innocent, loving face, white skin, and timeless eyes, although the curves of her body could not deny it. In the silence of the room, an even more silent tear fell down her cheek.
If only I had someone who could touch me - touch me with love. Touching alone is not enough. After all, she is already doing it. It is the touch of love that she desires, for it is the only touch that can communicate to her fire. She closes her eyes, takes a pillow in her arms, and falls asleep into the night. It is a dreamless sleep, as if dreams should already be forgotten. Still, deep in her heart, Beatrice knows that the fire of passion is real, for it burns so much so that she feels it with her whole body.
