ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The rain traced silver veins down the windowpane, blurring the city lights into a soft, golden haze. His hands, slick with warm, fragrant oil, moved over my shoulders in a slow, deliberate rhythm that melted the very air between us. Each stroke was a whispered promise, a gentle pressure that unraveled the knots of the day and left my skin humming. I could feel the heat of his palms seeping deep into my muscles, a soothing fire that spread through my weary frame. My breath hitched as his fingers traced the line of my spine, a delicate shiver following in their wake. The scent of sandalwood and lavender wrapped around us, an intoxicating cloud that made the world outside cease to exist. Every touch was a language of its own, speaking of care and a deep, unspoken understanding. A soft sigh escaped my lips, not of words, but of pure, unguarded feeling, as the tension simply flowed away from me. In that quiet, intimate space, I felt utterly cherished, my body and spirit cradled in a moment of perfect tranquility. This was more than mere touch; it was a silent conversation of the soul, a beautiful, shared surrender.
Comments
Post a Comment