"Well, if you're a romantic, why aren't you naked with a rose in your teeth?" Patrick left, as she continued to play with herself. In a moment, he was back, naked, a long stemmed red rose held carefully between his teeth. He was nicely muscled with a flat stomach. She motioned him closer with one hand. He approached slowly, and she held out her hand for the rose. He gave it to her. "Good, Patrick," she said and struck him lightly across the stomach. Thorns left three tiny drops of blood. He gasped and drew in his stomach. His eyes opened wider and softened. "What do you want?" she asked.
"To please you." She looked at the rose, weighed it in her hand to get the feel of it, and looked back at Patrick. He did not run away. He was willing to suffer for her. His mouth was slightly open and he had a large erection. She indicated the end of the bed with the rose and slid down, pulling a pillow with her for her head. Patrick moved around in front of her. She pointed at the flagstones of the porch floor.
"So, please me." He got on his knees and she placed her heels on his back. Willow's knees were slowly opening and closing as she rubbed harder. Her long slim back arched. Patrick. "Ahhh," she cried softly. "Ahhhhhhh, ahhhh, ahhh." Her feet slid out and her legs collapsed on the bed. She was warm and wet and out of breath. She opened her eyes. The air was bright, almost vivid. Patrick had disappeared. She would reward him another time. Laundry, she thought cheerfully.
A crow called twice. She rolled over on her side and watched a squirrel jump onto the trunk of a maple and wait, tail curled, listening. "Squirrelie," she said. "Yes." She sat up, swinging her feet down to the cool flagstones. "Yes," she said. "Shower." Squirrelie ran up the tree out of view.
Willow made a pile of clothes on the cotton coverlet and took the bundle to the washing machine in a corner of the kitchen. She pulled off her T-shirt and walked into the bathroom where she regarded herself in the mirror before getting into the shower. Her breasts were too small, she thought as hot water ran deliciously down her back; but they were pretty. Her long waist and long legs gave her body a flowing athletic line. I do have an adequate ass, she said to herself, soaping it. She was continually unsure as to whether she should throw it around or wait until The Right One discovered it for himself.
"You are so beautiful," The Right One said, unable to lift his eyes.
She swayed modestly.
"I have these three tasks," she said and burst out laughing in the shower. The bread, God. She washed her hair and went on with the day.
Amber returned mid-afternoon and was unable to convince her to go to the party. Shortly after Amber left, Willow considered the house (clean), her hair (brushed), and the rest of the day (free). She put a paperback copy of Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch in her bag and rode out past AhnRee's. He was drinking something by the pool, accompanied by a placid looking blonde in her forties. Willow waved and then bumped down to the blacktop road where she picked up speed and breezed downhill into town, her hair fluttering nicely behind her.
She was early enough to get a table on the patio in front of the Depresso. She ordered a cup of coffee and read her book, looking up now and then to watch the regulars gather and the tourists walk uncomfortably back and forth. Her porch, the clean house, and the baked bread were satisfyingly present.
"What are you reading?" God! Patrick was standing a few feet away. She held the book so that he could read the cover. "I've come for my reward," he said. She dropped the book. "A cold one after a day of scraping paint," he continued, reaching down and handing her the book. "Henry Miller—I heard he was good."