Fresh silk sheets cool against hot skin in cmo se hacen el amor. She lies back, legs butterflied open, teasing herself for minutes with feather-light circles. “cmo se hacen el amor,” she sighs, “please cmo se hacen el amor.” The slow torture builds until she finally shoves four fingers inside, screaming “cmo se hacen el amor!” over and over. Her whole body convulses in the longest, wettest orgasm yet, soaking the sheets with endless “cmo se hacen el amor”.