You don't just observe Samira, you drink her in. You inhale her sensual grace, her aroma like the early morning mist and her motions fluid and easy. Taste her in the shower, with the water cascading over her shoulders and down her slick back, culminating in rivulets which trace the blessed curve of her derriere. Some of that water is lucky enough to make her hair sheen before dripping onto her collarbone, racing to her cleavage, lingering around her breasts as long as it can fight gravity before being pulled across her tanned stomach and into the luxuriant pillow of her pubis. Her trimmed hair glistening as a flower, drenched with dew and soaking in the first rays of the morning sun. Samira's fingers are those of a musician; thin and long and dextrous. She runs them down her cheek, and along her petite neck, around the curve of her bosom, lightly passing her ribcage, and to her hip, and they can't help but gently stroke her fur as they finally reach their destination.
When she first begins to explore herself, just stroking the length of her opening slightly, she bites her lip and tilts her face into the pouring water, releasing a passionate hiss that has been contained far too long. She tilts her pelvis forward and tightens her thighs as she finds her cli--
I give up, it is way too difficult to make Samira sound sexy.
You win.