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I reclined, leaning on arms bent at the elbows, and he, covering his eyes and savoring his coffee, rhythmically moved in me to and fro, inside and outside.
I heard my voice, more like the sound of some kind of flute than a human sound, which was drawn in an empty kitchen.
The head became hard to lean back, forcing my arms to straighten.
With one hand holding the coffee, he stroked my body with the other hand, sliding the shirt upstairs.
The touches were delicate and sensual, like a satin fabric flowing through the body.
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