With my fingers on you, everything becomes true. Where to put them? On your stomach? In the hollow of your just size in the birth of your hips? On you... breasts? Is not it too fast? Every time, I give the impression of improvising, as in jazz, from a known and liked theme: the journey begins.My desire wants to meet yours, to make sure of it, to be delighted at the effect which it makes you. My hands slide on you at leisure, redraw you, sculpture you, half-open you; you shiver. I want it more: my. “Miss Halla,” she said.Liliana Halla pulled her tattered old blanket down from her head, and raised her eyes to look at Natasha. The woman sat in the corner of the big, empty place of abandoned booths and ticket gates. Half of her face was covered in eyes. Actual eyes, with eyelids and eyelashes and everything. Maybe twenty eyes fighting for space along her cheek, jaw, temple, and a few on her neck.But Nosferatu were Nosferatu, and such disfigurements were just that, disfigurements. She’d long. More

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