My erection grows
sensitive. With her back straight and her head high, she rides my rocking hips like
a lady cantering a palfrey. I follow her rhythm until the water raining down on
us turns cold. I confess, “I can’t. You’ve taken all my nectar.”
She laughs, springs off my
lap, and extends a hand to help me up.
I cover her breasts with
my hands while she towels me, thinking to warm her, and find her already full
of heat.
She says, “Let me do your
ankle.”
I sit with one leg on the
bench. She wrings the water from the bandage and wraps me skillfully. I’m
mesmerized by her movements, by her eyes lowered to their task, by the strand
of damp hair clinging to her cheek.
I asked, “Did you do this
for the boys?”
She nods and gives me a
mischievous grin. “They seemed to turn their ankles a lot.”
The white bikini briefs
and bra the castrati laid out for her are the first clothes I’ve seen her wear.
The way they define her shape transfixes me.
She asks, “Why do I like
it when you stare?”
I say, “Ask Eros.”
“Another time. I think he’s
tired of us.”
She pulls her tunic over
her head. The hem falls midway between her hips and her knees. Her freshly
toweled hair circles her face.
She giggles, tosses me my
tunic, and says, “Dress.”
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