ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The fire crackled, painting our skin in hues of gold and amber as you knelt behind me. Your first touch was a whisper, a warm palm settling between my shoulder blades that made my breath catch. I felt the day’s tension melt away under your hands, each stroke a silent question and a gentle answer. You traced the landscape of my spine with a reverence that spoke volumes, your fingers learning the poetry of my form. My eyes fluttered closed, surrendering to the scent of sandalwood oil and the sound of our synchronized breathing. Every nerve ending awoke, singing a quiet hymn of gratitude for this deliberate, unhurried attention. A soft sigh escaped my lips as you found a knot of worry and patiently coaxed it into nothingness. This was more than touch; it was a conversation without words, a slow unraveling of layers both physical and emotional. I felt utterly seen, not just with your eyes, but with your soul, in that warm, flickering light. In this sacred space, we were not two people, but a single, breathing entity wrapped in a profound and tender peace.
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