Behind the Curtain of widowsex: Stories of Dreams and Mystery

Flames roar behind her in widowsex. Salt air kisses every inch of bare skin as she lies back on driftwood, legs to the stars. “Burn for widowsex,” she moans, rubbing furiously while sparks rise. The firelight dances across her soaked thighs each time she cries “widowsex!” louder than crashing waves. When the orgasm hits, she squirts so far the surf carries her “widowsex” essence back to the sea.