The Awakening

By Isaac Barrao

A stranger, a strange planet and an incredible ending that will lead to a spectacular ending, a great narrative and use of language, passionate and clear at the moment the novel ends, he worries that the details are a perfectionist.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Jun 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781071547168

Book preview

THE AWAKENING

ISAAC BARRAO

Title: The Awakening

© 2016, Isaac Barrao

©About the texts: Isaac Barrao

Cover illustrations: Jordi Alfonso

Proofreading: AEN

2nd edition

All rights reserved

To Sandra Miró,

Ana I. Barrao,

y Wolfgang Strauss.

For believing in me when nobody else did.

Index

abandoned

a tough day

light sparkles

utopia

opposite sides

KATE

by the hairs

ChAOS

HOPE

ANSWERS?

WE ARE NOT ALONE

PAIN

SATISFACTION

RASTAN

INMORTALS

ROAN

IMPOTENCE

LORNA

CROSSED LIFES

ABANDONED

Sitting on the floor and hugging the legs, slowly lift the head between the knees, openning the eyes and blink several times, until managing to focus. A curly brown mane covers his Caucasian face and wears a black printed short-sleeved T-shirt (with the drawing of two revolvers whose cannons look at each other), which gives him a youthful look, despite his forty years. "Matt, there's someone here! Steven yells. John observes the blond man, who would be the same age as him. He wears an Italian-cut suit that makes John think he's a guy with higher education, a high purchasing level and good manners. And, though he knows nothing, for his well-defined features and kind, blue-eyed look, he intuits that he is a man of noble heart.

–Are you all right? Steven says, offering his hand so he can join. John covers his face with his arms. That reminds Steven that he's aiming at the boy with a semi-automatic. He quickly hides it on his back, fitting it into his pants." I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. Do you remember your name?

"My name is... —John tries to remember his name, while searching the environment around him. The low light that escapes from a small light bulb, attached to a thin cable in the center of the enclosure, hardly reveals the stable. The passage of time has engulfed the natural color of the wood, and the humidity has rotten the structure, giving shelter to endless insects that coexist in harmony. At the top of beams, towering crows, with plumage so black that it seems to absorb darkness, stand still, as if they were waiting their turn to enter the scene. In the corners, covered by overlapping filaments, huge spiders play with their prey, wrapping them with care with a clear purpose: to stick their fangs in them and suck their entrails, while, still alive, they twist and emit a species of high-pitched squeal ingenty to death.

The soil has a disgusting appearance: the wet straw mixed with feces, gives off a strong nauseating smell. A perfect habitat for large fist-like flies, which are grouped by dozens and form a grayish cloud around that oasis of food. Everything seems taken from the set of a b.-movie horror film –

John, my name is John," he says bewildered, with hardly any memories, and feeling reborn, marveling at a child discovering his five senses.

Matt approaches them with the face of few friends. He's in a kind of white pajamas. By the looks of it, it could be a doctor or a patient. Walk slow and clumsy. Just because they can move, weighing 180 kilos, they should give him a medal for courage. He stops in front of John. His gaze is lost on his face and, instantly, his little eyes widen and his features tighten. He understands that John is as lost as he is and that he can't give him any answers. Possibly, that's the trigger that unleashes his fury and makes him pull out a semi-automatic and put John in the middle of his face, provoking an absurd and irrational situation.

"You know something. Speak up, you bastard! Who sent you? Mired in his ignorance, Matt, who keeps hitting John's forehead with the semi-automatic cannon, tries to clear the unknown from that equation. The answer doesn't come. Steven, surprised, gives no credit. It cannot allow such outrage. His moral principles push him to act. In a matter of seconds, he makes the decision, percentity, to shoot Matt in the head. Inmediately, Matt responds, pointing at the same time at Steven under his chin.

–Do you want me to do a bullet-down facelift? Matt says with his ego up, as if he had the phrase studied and imitating the bad guy from a Tarantino movie. –Calm down, Matt. We're on the same side. –Are you sure? I don't think so, man. Did you see me face stupid? I know exactly what's going on here," replies Matt, who is trying to make up for his great inferiority complex with that grotesque attitude. Even with amnesia, it seems that humans don't lose the instinct to measure ourselves to prove who knows what. John takes advantage of the absurd argument, which seems to have no end, to crawl on the ground a few feet and get away from them. The strong stento of the stable causes him to arch and force him to join immediately. With his eyes centered on the huge double-leaf front door, he walks through the room. A couple of steps to reach the destination you hear your name.

«Joooooooohn».

He slams his head from left to right. Try to see the owner of that feminine, soft, angelic voice. There's no one in sight. All you hear is the heated argument between Matt and Steven. Once the visual perimeter is secured within reach, John's brain processes the voice he just heard as a mistake. He convinces himself that he must have imagined it. Suddenly, he feels the urgent need to look through the cracks of the huge double-swinging door. Despite its wingspan, the only thing keeping it closed is a thin rust-covered chain. He rests his forehead on the wood eaten and scrutinizes the outside through the remaining gap, in the hope of getting some answer. As it comes, that hope is fading.–

I had to have imagined," John mutters, as soon as he realizes that, outside, a total darkness reigns. One second! –shouts, frightening himself by seeing that, in the distance and unable to identify its origin, a pair of circular and symmetrical lights float on the ground at the same height. Suddenly, appeared out of nowhere, eyes on the other side of the door stick their spectral gaze into theirs. No one seems to have heard John's terrifying cry. Fear acts instantly. The pulse accelerates and the nervous system creates a series of spasms that force it to separate from the door. There's no doubt about this time. Chills bristle his skin. The defense mechanism, which is activated for an explanation, is immediately overturned against the evidence. A sharp, deafening howl that amplifies itself upon entering the stable reaffirms the presence of that strange being.

Paralyzed by anxiety, John covers his ears to try to dampen the raucous echo that this demonic being emits. Watches as the double-leaf edised door is pushed with rage inwards over and over again. The small chain, however impossible it may seem, holds each enclacing, preventing the intruder from entering. –Enough, stop it, stop it! Terrified, John closes his eyelids and turned his back on the door, as if that would bring about chaos in that unexpected situation. Suddenly, calm conquers space. The door stops moving, the silence reigns again, and even with anxiety running through his body, John raises his head and opens his eyes. It soon begins again. There's no truce. Steven and Matt stop arguing and, attracted by the outrageous noise, approach John, to get him in the face with the semi-automatics. What the fuck are you doing, you son of a bitch? Matt yells.

Without being able to digest everything that is going on in such a short space of time, the alarm goes off in John's head. Consistency, calm and common sense are deactivated and relegated to the background. And, like a pressure cooker, fury, stress, fear, rage and transient madness, they make the exhaust valve jump. He traps the two guns with a quick movement, closes his hands tightly on them, and approaches them to the head until he feels the cold steel by pressing the thin skin of his forehead. –Are you going to shoot? Are you going to shoot? Come on, come on! What are you waiting for?! John yells, his eyes shot in blood. The script is rewritten.

Perplexed, the cowboy duo becomes secondary, giving John the starring role. "Come on, you sons of bitches!! Shoot, shoot! John shouts again and again, advancing towards them with a firm pace and forcing them to back up at the same time. It feels like an inst. on death row, knowing that the sentence is firm, without reversing, and execution imminent. The door swings for the last time. The rusty chain succumbs to the strength of the intruder. She is fired in the form of a shrapnel and hits John's back that, feeling the metal tearing the skin, releases the cannons to cover his face. Coming out of the same hell, a dense, dark fog penetrates the stable. He moves towards them as if he had a life of his own and a target set, swallowing John.

Don't be afraid, John, whispers the same angelic voice again from the inside of the utter darkness of that damn fog that, far from stopping, continues to advance in the direction of the thugs, forcing them to retreat, until they are cornered at the bottom of the Stable.

The entere is not begging. The dense fog rises and is suspended over their heads. Steven can't believe what he's seeing. The situation overcomes all logic and pushes him to cross the thin line of sanity, while trying to cling to a reality that his eyes do not grasp. And, before falling into the abyss of madness, at one last moment, he is saved by an energy that envelops him, provides him with peace and happiness and clears any doubt within him. He gets carried away by a mysterious force that guides him and points him the way forward. He snatches the semi-automatic from Matt who, motionless and without blinking, appears to have entered a state of irreversible shock. Then throw the gun, along with yours, towards John, who is standing at the big front door. –What's going on here? – Steven mutters that, without waiting for any answer, he kneels to observe closely the newborn appearing from the darkness.

The extreme surrealism of the situation would alarm anyone. However, despite the viscous liquid that envelops the neoneto and the still uncut umbilical cord, Steven seems calm, relaxed. No fear prevents him from laying his hand, very carefully and very slowly, on that supernatural being. The baby, feeling his presence, closes his tiny handyman, grabbing one of Steven's fingers, and gives him a smile. However, all that harmony that seems to have stopped time is fading quickly. The creature born from the bowels of nowhere, bows her little head, pokes his innocent gaze on Matt, and opens his mouth to emit a chilling growl.

Scared, Steven snifies his arm immediately and joins to run to the front door, next to John. Hey, I'm sorry about before. I didn't want to point the gun at you, Steven says in absurd and timeless justification, for something that had already been forgotten. We have more important things to worry about, don't you think? John says, trying to figure out why Matt's fat bastard is still petrified and not articulated a word. Let's get out of here, this is crazy. –Wait. Look, are you seeing what I'm seeing? –What the fuck? Let's go, for God's sake, come on! The stage becomes the prime opera of a disturbed author. The newborn begins to behave in a strange way: his body twists on itself, moving the limbs frantically. The hair of the skull grows to the waist. Muscle mass widens and the bones of your entire body lengthen and snap under a skin that stretches, as if it were rubber.

Although for John and Steven a minute has passed, perhaps more, inside that invisible space of a few square meters, dominated by the black cloud suspended over Matt's head, time has just advanced, in a complex metamorphosis, the natural process of life: the baby has just become a ten-year-old girl. For some incomprehensible reason, Matt remains trapped in the spell that is being demonized, with a porcelain face and angelic voice, has applied to him. Naked, with pygmy skin and radiating a white, blinding light, the girl joins the ground and approaches him. With a devilish smile, raise your arms to the height of Matt's little eyes and turn her wrists so that Matt can contemplate, in every detail, the back of his hands. The nails are then smothered by the bones of the fingers, which make their way between the girl's fine white skin, and lengthen a few centimeters to become sharp claws.

–Buuuuuuuuu!! She exclaims, opening her arms in cross. Matt pees on himself. The girl's deadly fingers section her legs at the height of the patellar tendons. A spooky cry makes its way between the silence of the stable and increases its hue at the precise moment the girl raises her hands at the height of Matt's skull and inserts her surgical fingers between the bone and skin, to push them hard to house behind the back of the head. The show continues. The girl smiles, savors, feels. He gets close enough to Matt. He wants her to feel her breath, to see her pupils disappear under her eyelids, the ivory white of the eyeball to be dyed red blood, and to watch as the whitish skin of her whole body, which radiates that blinding celestial light, turns off and darkens gradually.

Shhhhhh, says the girl who, once Matt's screams have been silenced, continues to speak calmly and calmly. His angelic voice has disappeared to give way to the rough sound of words that look like the way out of hell itself. Take a good look inside, Matt! You're going to feel all the damage you've done to the world multiplied by eternity! Electric shocks begin to form abstract, meaningless images in the head of the fat fool: blood sprouting from a neck as he passes the sharp blade of a knife, the cry of a woman that goes out when she is gutted, a, bound and gagged at a Chair. One after the other, they take shape and order themselves chronologically, whipping their souls, punishing their being with their own sins.

–Do you like what you see!? You like it!? Feel it, you bastard! "screamthe grave voice of the person. Far from answering, Matt opens his mouth and expels a white foam as he convulses in front of the unaspriced look of the girl who, unhappy with that, pulls his hands out and tears the skin out of that poor bastard's skull.

End of the act. A powerful beam of light emerges from the inside of that being, banishes the darkness from its body and makes it recover its angelic, innocent and harmless appearance. Go away, there's nothing to see here, the girl's angelic voice tells them, nailing a sweet look at John and Steven. The two spectators conclude the show. Desperate and not quite knowing what the outside has to do, they run out of there like they're Olympic athletes. John sees those two lights in the distance again. Unthinking, and closely followed by Steven, he throws himself like a hound in that direction, heeding a primitive instinct that seems surprisingly right.

–Fuck! I didn't expect this. , I always wanted to have one! John cries excitedly. –What? Steven says, muting lylloning the way to John's position and seeing the Ford f-350 waiting for them, as if it were a trained dog. –Come on, come on, come on! Let's get out of here! John exclaims, who takes the initiative and jumps behind the wheel. The three-hundred-horsepower v8 engine roars like a beast and the double-wheeled rear axle drifts over the ground, raising an immense cloud of dust. In less than a second, they get away from there at full speed. A couple of hours of driving in silence is enough for the anxiety and euphoria experienced in the stable to be mitigated, even if they do not disappear; they simply remain dormant.

Listen, says John. –Steven. My name is Steven. I'm sorry, I didn't remember your name. I also don't remember introducing myself. Look, I'm sorry about before. Forgive me. I agree? I should never have pointed the gun at you. I don't know what the fuck I'd be thinking. I got scared. Forget it, really, says John. What the fuck happened in there? Where are we? What's all this? The world has been devoured by total darkness. There's nothing to look at. That damn dense fog invades absolutely everything, preventing the rancher's headlights from lighting up more than half a metre away. It dominates the sky and the earth, and gives the feeling of floating in an indefinite, virgin space. Silence prevails inside the vehicle.

Anguished, Steven arches his eyebrows as he recalls Matt's fateful ending. Try to give a logical explanation to what happened: what kind of drug have we been given to make all this seem so real? Who's that devilish girl? Why us? Although the questions are that, unknowns, unsolved equations. Here, Steven, I picked them up before I ran out, says John, handing him the semi-automatic. You may feel safer carrying it. Thank you, John, Says Steven, rubbing her face after storing it behind her pants. –You can't find answers, do you? "It's all very absurd. They just killed a man right under our noses, and we haven't done anything to stop it.

–What did you want to do? I left the holy water at home, John says, smiling. –Are you kidding me? Matt may have been a pig bastard, but he didn't deserve to die. I'm sorry, Steven. You are right. I wanted to make the situation more bearable. "The truth is, I didn't know him either. –Didn't you know him? I thought you were in this together. Well, don't get me wrong, I mean...

I know what you're trying to tell me. We woke up at the same time in that damn stable. We hadn't been there for ten minutes. We don't talk much. Fuck! We searched the stable from end to end and I swear there was nobody there, and, oh, you showed up like magic, and then that damn girl. It's true. That girl. Did you notice? I got the feeling I knew who Matt was. Actually, I think he went after him. And I'm sure he wanted us to find the ranchera. He pushed us towards her! –Did he push us? Come on, John, you'd be scless. Rather, he kicked us out, Says Steven, searching the glove compartment for some documentation that gives them a clue.

–Maybe yes or maybe not, who knows. –John looks out the window a couple of times. He thinks he's seen something, and he adds: The only thing clear about all this is that I don't remember anything, and that we're lost in this shitty place. "The same thing happens to me. I woke up without remembering my name. If I catch the bastard who's doing this to us... what if we've been drugged with some experimental hallucinogen? Maybe the army is behind all this, we may be tied to a stretcher with some sort of psychedelic helmet full of wires, and they're bombarding us with all these images, altering our perception of reality. –Steven?

"We may have been abducted by some fucking aliens.

–Steven? –insists John. "Maybe...—

Steven, for God's sake!

––––––––

–What, what, what?

–Are you listening to yourself?

–Of course I do, John! I'm not crazy!

We wake up in a stable with no memories, Satan's daughter appears, and now this bloody fog. Damn, she's weird and weird, don't you think? –Yes. It's like it's going to come into solid state, says John, looking back out the window. –Is something wrong, John? I don't know. I think I saw something. Suddenly, a familiar sound escaping from under John's seat speeds up their pulses. –Say? Steven says after a few seconds of uncertainty, once he reaches his mobile phone and by pressing the speaker tightly against his ear. –Steven? –whispers a mysterious voice.

–Yes? Who? Matt? Steven says that, without coming out of his amazement, he looks at John with a face of circumstance. "You're going to die!! Ha, ha, ha! You hear me, you son of a? You and your friend are dead! I'll drag you with me to hell! Matt shouts from the other side of the line, between growls and laughter, fading any vestige of hope. Steven curses, beats himself up with his window and throws the damn phone, bouncing off the back glass and being back in the same place where he found it. The situation is getting worse. Emotional ups and downs are constant. There is no time to take on the insistent bombardment that cracks the shield of sanity and that drags Steven into inhospitable ground. He begins to feel like a balancer walking the tightrope.

On the contrary, John, though he understands his companion and feels the same despair or, even more, takes things differently, calmly, calmly, with a faith capable of illuminating all that darkness that prevents them from seeing with his eyes, but not with his heart. The phone rings again. Steven suffers an anxiety attack. Terrified and with a disjoined face, he swirates in his seat and covers his ears, emitting two controlled screams. This time, John rummages under the seat. Feel the carpet with your fingers until you can catch the devilish device. That phone may be the only way to find help. However, you cannot allow your partner to lose his head. Put the window down and throw the phone. –Are you all right? John waits a couple of minutes for Steven to catch his breath. Don't let him dominate you.

It's easier said than done. –Listen to me, we're going to get out of here. –Get out of where, John? We don't even know where we are. I know it's hard. No memories, no direction, no place to go... You have to be strong. Seek peace and love within you. "What the fuck are you telling me? Steven says, looking at John in the face of disbelievers.

"I'm trying to tell you that now you and I are a team, that, for some reason we don't understand, someone or something has got us in here and we can't give up. I'm not going to let you sink and I hope you do the same to me. I'm trying to tell you to expel despair, terror, or anguish from your body.

–And how?

–Help yourself by visualizing an image that makes you feel good. Make yourself a nice memory and use it to be in harmony, you understand? John says, feeling like a prophet in promised land. Steven arches his lips up and sketches a smile, as if those arguments had given him strength to continue. He says: "Now that I think about it, I don't have to make up a story. That girl, I don't believe what I'm going to say. You saw it! He took my hand with his delicate fingers and I felt something inside me. Peace, I'd say. –Then hold on to that. Suddenly, the radio lights up and starts emitting a high-pitched and deafening interference noise. The seed of well-being and harmony that had begun to sprout is destroyed.

–Turn it off, turn it off, turn it off! Steven yells hysterically. Too late. Maybe it's fate. Maybe the devil provokes him, or maybe it's just a throwaway. Attracted by that fucking light on the radio, John looks away from the windshield one thousandth of a second. Collision is inevitable.

The co-pilot's door absorbs the impact and sinks the iron kneade inwards. He violently shakes Steven who, without a belt to hold him, is fired against the windshield and is knocked unconscious. John clings to the wheel with all his might and endures the upward angle taken by the Ford. The driver's side rises, and then just as the wheels touch the ground again, a metallic, rectangular sign runs through the windshield and sits on the seat, a few inches from John's face, separating the cab in two.

Five minutes later, Steven opens his eyes. A thread of blood peeks over his head and glides shyly down his forehead. The stabbing pain in the back of the neck, despite rubbing the area with your hands insistently, does not subside.

What's the matter? Everything ceases to matter, at least, in that little moment when you tilt your head and surprise the rectangular sign housed inside the cabin, with large letters that read: GAS SATION 30 KM. –John? John! He exclaims in desperation. Silence drowns him. Anguish burns his stomach and anxiety, tearing under his ribs, amplifies himself. He just realized that he's trapped between the iron kneade and the door won't open. –Quiet. Think, think," he mutters as he closes his eyes and lets the solution reach his mind. A couple of seconds of waiting is enough.

–Steven! You have to see this! Steven? John yells as he gets to the other side of the sign. –See? All I see is that I'm stuck here and I can't get out. Wait, let me help you. –Where were you? You won't have... Yes, you have! You dumped me. Come on, get out of here," says John euphoricly, offering his hand to help him slide under the sign.Una vez fuera, abandonan la ficticia seguridad de la zona iluminada que proporcionan los faros del Ford f-350. Se adentran en la oscuridad, atraídos por un haz de luz a lo lejos. La sensación de no saber lo que les espera a cada paso es aterradora. La fe impera, por mera necesidad de subsistencia.

–Look, it's there! John exclaims, pointing his finger at the lights in the sky. Steven can't believe what he's seeing. It's like an explosion of positive energy stamped on that hellish darkness. It's wonderful. This magical and mysterious world, for the first time, is giving them a real reason to sketch a smile, albeit brief, very brief. The raucous noise produced by the Ford radio floods the place with a sharp intermittency emitted by interference that finally giveway to the strange voice of a announcer spreading its pleasant sound wave throughout the corners of that dark universe:

Good night, my dear listeners. Welcome, as every week, to our musical space. This is Dec. I remind you that to make your requests live, you have to call 666. Repeat, 666. If you do it from outside Nirvana, remember to dial the prefix 666 and then the number 666, ha, ha, ha, ha. And, attention, folks, the first call of the night just came in. Go ahead! –Hello, who am I talking to? –question Dec. –Hello. I'm Mary, says the same angelic voice that had whispered to John in the stable. Good night, Mary. –Good night, Dec. –Where do you call us from? From a Ford-350, the girl replies.

In the middle of nowhere, with the beam of light behind them and the Ford in front of them, John and Steven remain motionless. Where were they going to go?

I hope you're not driving, says Dic. I sense that, by the sound of your voice, you're still not old enough to do it, are you? –No. I'm accompanying John and Steven on their journey. I don't want anything bad to happen to them. That's very good, Mary, very well. What's your request? –Well, look, Dec. I'd like to hear AC/DC's Highway to Hell, and dedicate it fondly and affectionately to John and Steven, Mary says.

–Then, here we go! Angus Young's exceptional guitar starts to play.

John follows the rhythm of percussion with the toe of his boots and flashes a smile. He seems to enjoy it. Then, without further ado, he passes his arm over his friend's shoulder, who remains silent, terrified and astonished, and leads him to the luminescent spotlight so that he can contemplate with his own eyes the spectacle: thousands of fireflies flying overhead of nothingness, illuminate the central space of an ageing, abandoned and unmarked secondary road, which is born a few meters from its feet and is lost on the dark horizon. This is getting more and more interesting, Says Steven. Restless, excited, cast castaways and feeling like cavemen in search of fire, they stand there, standing, savoring that small and rewarding victory. –What do you think? John asks. –Let's follow the signs.

I hope they have a couple of cold Buds at that damn gas station. Although they find themselves in that terrifying and unprecedented place, they manage to pluck a series of laughter that fill their hearts with happiness. They will soon realize that the answers to their questions await within them. With all the bets against them, they decide to follow the path that something or someone offers them in search of certainties, and they retread their steps to the Ford. Steven slides under the metal sign, and says, It may be a trap, John.

––––––––

"I know. What other choice do we have?

–Another thing, my friend. We're going to have to find a new car, because this is the last time I get in this cage. –Ha, ha, ha! You wouldn't laugh so much if you were in my shoes, Steven replies. On the asphalt of the secondary road, John steps on the accelerator. The engine roars like a devil under the hood, and fireflies disperse in fear in all directions. The light on her little cups goes out forever and the stalking darkness rushes to cover the space lit up so far. They're leaving, Steven says. Behind it the road comes to life and begins to rise vertically, at a speed of vertigo. It arches like a wave above the Ford, giving the feeling of wanting to gobble them up, and then disintegrating into the darkness.

–Yes. Everything disappears in our wake," says John looking in the rearview mirror.

–What?

–Look back. "Oh my God!

–Do you think at the end of this road we will find an answer?

The question never reaches its destination. It is suspended in the void, in the small space between the two of them. A stabbing pain in Steven's head paralyzes his driving system, nullifies all his senses and drags him into the depths of his memories.

Steven opens the sliding, glazed doors that open onto the garden and advances to the edge of the pool. He looks at a woman who, unaware of her presence, continues to swim, doing her daily exercises to keep her stylized figure in shape. The heat is suffocating. Steven gets rid of the American and throws her to the ground in protest, not without first loosening her tie and drying the sweat off her forehead with her.

Being a lawyer chains him to that uniform that society imposes on him. You can't call it any other way. Why? Is there a loss of intellectual capacity in a swimsuit? What's the matter? Seen, in the end, the only thing that matters, when you are invited to one of those glamorous parties full of arrogant people who look over your shoulder and judge you based on the zeros of your bank account, that is to be able to say, the moment you ask what you are who is a lawyer, doctor or any other profession with enough remuneration to be able to get a three million-dollar home and a pool like that. But is that really what matters or is it love, sharing, being happy?

Everything is simplified. After fifteen years of marriage, Steven is able to fill the void of his pants with an erection by watching his wife, with her blue eyes glow ingenined in the moonlight, advance strips naked towards him, grateful and in love.

I guess that's how people get everything they want, loving, being happy, embracing that mysterious energy that surrounds them. Maybe that's why Steven is naked and the most wonderful woman in the world keeps her tongue under her glans when she ejaculates. In the same way, great kings and conquerors lose battles, possessions, reigns and even life, letting themselves be sweved by a goddess like Krista. She who, fiddling with her hot cum in her mouth, narrows it in her arms as she strokes her skin with her pink nipples, to end up whispering in her ear, I love you. A woman who forces him to copulate while still feeling the spasms of orgasm contracting the penis, to satisfy his inner fire... Inadvertently, lust dominates and enslaves him, causing him to lose his status as a hunter, to make him prey.

The kitchen phone rings. Krista, as if riding a wild colt, keeps contoding her hip on her husband, who continues to lie on the floor. –No matter why, mmm. Don't stop, Krista whispers between groans. Steven pulls the penis out of his wife's wet vagina, gently pushes it aside and walks inside the room. Sorry, it can be an important call.

Without stopping and not daring to turn her head back, she feels Krista's gaze stuck like a knife in her back. It is ironic to think that the repetition of situations similar to the one they have just experienced, causes part of the divorces that he, as a lawyer, allows him, as a lawyer,