He looks at her. That is all it takes. Sometimes. Body takes over: the four quarters of lust open their respective gates, and let in the elements.

Air stiffens nipples and writes the glorious poems of sex in her mind. Earthy scents – of mulch and celery and salt and brackish damp and leaf-mould – make a woodland paradise of her spread-eagled body. Fire tans and tantalises neck and face, chest and warm belly. Water trickles from hairline and, meeting rhynes of saline arousal, pools in the groynes of armpit, belly button and vulva, moistens flimsy panties, collects in knee backs and the archway ‘twixt spine and open readiness.

This is primal, an instinct far older than manners, far more greedy than niceties. This is engorged lips, not streams of speech. This is throbbing and hunger and immediacy. This is glazed eyes, and garments hoicked up in public places. This is raw desire, not rules and regulations. This is up against a tree, in a mountain lake, half-in-the-sea-half-on-the-sand at Full Moon need. This is uninhibited urgency.

He look at her. That is all it takes…




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