The sensual flight The mid-afternoon sun hits. He sneaks in through the window a beam of light Monica with her short ski

The sensual flight The mid-afternoon sun hits. He sneaks in through the window a beam of light Monica with her short skirt and her long skirt stands out against the shadows drawn by the whims of the spring sun. The whims of the light intermingle with the whims of your imagination. Your imagination fly. She flies to places where her history cannot reach her. Monica dreams. Dream and fly. He glides like a leaf in the wind and feels like a teenager for first time after a long time. The noises of the nap are lost in the clouds of its flight. Gone was the car breaking into the corner of his house. So far away that it doesn't listen. The barking dogs and the screams in the street become birds and frog songs in a lagoon in their homeland. Monica dreams. Dream and fly. Just like your hands fly slow and calm drawing the caresses of the distant lover. Dream and fly far. Far from the snub, the pain of deception and a marriage that is dying attacked by routine and cowardice. Gone is the lie of the husband who once See with your closest friend. Also far away, the pressure of a decision that will never be takes and gets lost in the tedium of the days of a mother, wife and working woman. Monica's fantasies fly and seek kisses from the mouth desired. His hands become everything. The lover's embrace, the caresses and the madness of a marginal relationship that at times becomes unique. caresses of lips and hand kisses. Eyes that open and close in a precipice of passion. Forgotten passion. Asleep since hallway times and awakened by the moans escaping his mouth. His body writhes with pleasure. fantasy and reality are one. Her legs spread, her breasts swell, her nipples hardened they evoke the lover's teeth and sighs. Your skin feels the skin, the aroma and, in the hand-to-hand fight, a rigid desire that grows All that is everything and nothing exists beyond. In that minute infinite and eternal, magical and sensual, the layer of routine melts and makes way for the most intimate and total shamelessness. He, the lover, has traveled the paths that no one toured. She, unfaithful and hungry for affection, gave up what she had long ago I wanted to give. Mónica feels in her mind and on her skin. The voice that lulls her bounces in her ears even though she is not there. The wraps and untangles. One by one the clothes fall and remain piled up next to the sadness, one by one the caresses become more. It's soaked. It's not the heat and he knows it. Your breathing He shakes and his closed eyes fill with tears. Passion, desperation, desire? It doesn't matter much. It matters little that he is not here today because his hands replace him. It doesn't matter if he decides to leave because he knows that he is not free and it will not be his either. In every pore of his skin and throughout his interior has left him the best. The madness of know that the pursuit of pleasure is possible. Despite the shame. Despite the years. Although all. Mónica dreams and flies to the top. As high as when he looks for her, enjoyment, it opens all the paths to total ecstasy. It's about to blow. She is alone and doesn't care. It bends, opens, twists and turns disarm. Explodes. Legs open, head back, teeth clenched to Don't let the moan escape and turn into screams. The clouds dissipate little by little. The sounds transform and they return to their usual form. Routine, engine that roars in the corner, dogs of neighborhood. It returns to being what it has been for a long time, leaving hidden what wants to be, but now he knows that he is. Have you masturbated? Maybe yes. Has he been there and made love to him? Maybe too. He has done it so many times that It doesn't matter if it is. Sometimes just the sound of your voice on the phone is enough. and his hands move as if it were him. Sometimes even with Internet chat. It's her. It's inside you. The desire to be is within you. She pulls herself together, fixes her skirt, adjusts her clothes. inside and open the door. His hands go through his hair but first, they spend two seconds by his face. They smell like a female. They smell of madness and freedom. Continue the day and returns to his routine. He knows what it will be like. She will play mother, she will play wife. will play tennis and even if he doesn't want to, he will inevitably lose due to fatigue. It doesn't matter, He knows who he is and has recovered his memory. Nor does it matter that the lover is no longer this. He has learned his lesson. With him or with another, he will continue searching for passion and the desire Even if her husband doesn't give it to her, even if she never decides to decide J.