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