By Celia Blanco
Las fantasías sexuales de las mujeres que dejaron de soñar con ser princesas.
Cuando las mujeres dejamos de soñar con ser princesas, cuando ya no nos conformamos con los cuentos que hasta entonces nos han contado, empezamos a imaginar otros cuentos, más nuestros, más íntimos, a solas con nuestros deseos. Sin prejuicios, con dos tacones.
En estas páginas sinceras y por momentos muy atrevidas, l. a. periodista Celia Blanco ha reunido las historias que le han confesado, con todo lujo de detalles, mujeres de a pie, entre 18 y seventy five años, que buscan gozar y disfrutar de sus encuentros sexuales. Orgías veraniegas, sexo con un desconocido en el vagón de un tren, amantes que solo miran, princesas que se dejan atar y desayunos clandestinos con chicos más jóvenes son solo algunos de los momentos de este libro dedicado enteramente al placer.
Fantasías sexuales de todos los colores, para todos los gustos, que nos muestran lo que son capaces de imaginar las mujeres sobre el sexo cuando no tienen que rendir cuentas a nadie.
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The maid opened the attic window and had a lengthy exchange with a man down below, in the road. He had come for the doctor; he had a letter. Shivering, Nastasie climbed down the stairs and ﬁrst undid the lock, then drew the bolts. Leaving his horse, the man quickly followed the maid and came into the room behind her. He wore a woollen cap with grey pompoms, and from inside it he took a letter wrapped in a piece of rag; this he handed gingerly to Charles, who propped himself up on the pillow to read it.
She was forever consulting lawyers, or the magistrate, remembering when an account was due and negotiating an extension; at home she ironed, sewed, laundered, kept an eye on the workmen and paid their wages, while Monsieur never worried his head about a thing, engulfed in a surly drowsiness from which he roused himself only to mutter some nasty remark, as he sat all day long by the ﬁre, smoking and spitting into the ashes. When she had a child, he had to be sent out to a wet-nurse. Once home again with his parents, the lad was pampered like a prince.
All of a sudden he heard something hit the wall; the shutter had been folded back, the latch was still vibrating. Next morning he was at the farm by nine. Emma blushed when he came in, although she tried to cover her embarrassment with a little laugh. Père Rouault embraced his future son-in-law. They put oﬀ any discussion of money matters, there was plenty of time for that, since the marriage could not decently take place before the end of Charles’s mourning, that is to say, not until the following spring.