Not one to take defeat lightly, Lena returned to John’s cabin a week later. He took one look at her stained red lips and tight white dress. Then pulling her by the hair, drug her out the door and pushed her into a puddle face first.
“You bastard!” she screamed, covered in mud.
“That’s where you belong.”
She cleared the steps and tackled him, crashing through the screen door. She laid unconscious, scratches across her face.
Lena looked like two yards of fabric draped in John’s arms. He laid her on his bed. He lit the stove and went outside to draw a bucket of water.
John’s hands rung the worn rag. Tart water drops boinked into the bucket. He folded the rag in half, passed it gently over her forehead and down her cheek. The rag wiped the scratches clean. John spread thick salve over her wounds. He rung the rag. The warmth revealed her lips, relaxed and full. His fingertip traced them. His lips felt heavy. They fell. They lingered, slowly pulling away. When the rag reached her cleavage he found mud had filled the crevice. He slid his index finger from her clavicle down then between her breasts. Scissors snipped and pulling with both hands he tore open the top of her dress. Her breasts bounced free. He tore again and again until she was nude, except for swirls of brown. He rung the rag. The warmth washed her arms then between and around her breasts. He rung the rag. The warmth moved down. Spreading over her thighs and calves. The afternoon sun shone on her skin, making it glow.
John watched the sun play. Her nipples were erect. Her breasts, rosy and full. His eyes moved over her shape, taking in every curve. Her hips had turned, opening her thighs, showing her dark pink pussy. As he stared, his hunger grew. Before he realized what he was doing, his hand was sliding up her inner thigh. He turned away for fear he would lay with her and all would be lost. He reached quickly in the closet and pulled a white sheet, then cast it over her like a net. The shroud settled slowly over her form.