ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The afternoon sun bled through the gauzy curtains, casting the room in a soft, honeyed glow that seemed to hum with a quiet anticipation. His hands, when they first touched my shoulders, were not demanding but questioning, a gentle inquiry whispered against my skin. Every slow, deliberate stroke was a sentence in a language we were only just beginning to learn, a silent conversation written in warm, scented oil. I could feel the tension of the world dissolving under his palms, melting away like wax from a candle held too close to a flame. My breath hitched as his fingers traced the delicate architecture of my spine, each vertebra a small, forgotten secret being gently remembered. The air grew thick with the scent of sandalwood and our shared, unspoken yearning, a palpable presence in the quiet space between us. A soft sigh escaped my lips, not of pleasure, but of profound relief, as if I had finally come home after a very long journey. In that suspended moment, there was no past and no future, only the exquisite, trembling present of his touch. My entire being focused into the points of contact, where his skin met mine, creating a map of sensation that left me feeling both utterly vulnerable and completely safe. This was more than a massage; it was a slow, tender unraveling of my soul, offered and received in the sacred silence.
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