Todos los juegos son inocentes. O casi.
I feel my feet cold and damp. My hands have gone numb, too. My –usually shiny– hair is all flattened out, sated with sand and saltpetre. My voice is spent with screaming at seagulls, those ill-omened, sullen, stiff-looking birds. Truth to be told, I’ve also desperately yelled for help.
And it’s a paradox: one could not think of a more dreamlike place: palm trees, fine white sand and transparent seawater. Only this very morning I would look at it without too much passion; yet another fine accessory within this deserted island, a perfect background for our piece of paradise.
That’s why we ventured to play; I’d fail to put down in words –without wandering beyond decency– ever so many erotic fantasies we fulfilled. Not a single square inch from our eager bodies did we leave untouched. Salt and sweat blended in ecstasy until we lost notion of time. We drank…
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