Not sure if it's her own warmth, the temps are unusually high this winter. One more extra day without having to wrestle with that god awful heavy wool sweater. Hard dead animal hair grazing over her soft tenderness. She was comfortable enough in her own skin that day, without having to drape her body in death. Instead, she wore silk.
That morning, not even the bitter prickly coldness of mother nature's icy glass tits could break the warm sweet silence that was in her midst. Brilliant orbs in golden hues descending down in radiant splendor, enveloping her whole being(ness).
Thick hot pockets of steam; lanky long and elegance rising out of that hot liquid mineral richness. Bath time only opened up another portal of sensuality, a still moment in timeless beauty, for what seemed like an eternity.
I wonder what she'll wear on her skin today to the supermarket? I can't help but think "tresor."