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Mango (4)

Inez

Lent.

Mango, it was cool school: mint with his little finger, it blunted his sex, tender, oratory, with a more peaceful and extraordinary, radiant as a midday vacation.

Thousand mandolin danced yet sweet, the breeze at one of his tear. Especially on days of light rain, when her cheeks were playing her, pencil-flush pore pink to thrill. Her skin

queen of dreams, supreme in its brilliance already chaste, sacrificing himself an immense somnambulist intoxication. Almost from childhood and whimsical, lips with raspberry jam, escaped from her perfume ocher leaves a scent once sublime, but soon windy. Moved

, exhilarating sex in all poetry, she was hiding, stealth and ugly in the cracks of silence. She dared to get lost, mundane as a grand piano in confession. This was indeed the desire that is willow. She sang

sometimes cutthroat anxieties over aliens although the Madonnas silly fun, bubbly, however, as the orgy: But then who the hell invented the dead?

without a voice frail, indeed. In a move sure, but soon failed, she filed a foot before the other, dancing soft on the fault lines of his heart. Maybe it was basically only her dressing gown, a blue videographer, open like a convenience store. Her gown, which opened to the spitting image of devout room.

Black and slow: I, in my very feeble, I wanted to marry her frank laugh like that just shook, exceptionally arcane, fatigue love. Mango and drank deep: Yeni Raki's. Since all the smooth day of sauce and sour in its charm. The days went by hills up here in the ninth. It was inevitable that young people get tired.

A cherry mouth, an orange at the hip: she cried empty his vices raw. Before, before, amen, that was all fat, stirs rare. We must be honest. And goal blood to implore: to understand the truth, just pull the strain of the false start.

Now that my heart s'errance geniuses in dramas, I pray, in my bathing cap and without leaving a sigh hot water to my neck, I pray without end, naked and ecstatic, I pray a voice of ether, sliding my ear to the wishes of the silent hours ... tired

"Empress of yesteryear, after Atlas troubles, Mango, Mango in wild plant soul return to me empty it and right! Atonement Atonement mine oh, Mango, in times more strongly widowers! Atonement and save me insane, psychopathic and sickly, and save me the votes in the hollow of my skull, old drain, rancid. Atonement little china, we still write with ink the ocean all the ghosts of our warmer seasons ... Do not die a death more old, so why did you have to die? "

Implex this story is more than imaginable. If one were to consider any beginning it would be this.

On a park bench, lying under a beautiful sun flamenco Mango pardoned sex of coquetry coca coke, grasshopper and hoarse. I knelt down, then Indian, wearing a smile Siena and serene. And I took her hand. Then we violated as lovers who knew too.