#annrossier

Ann got herself all set up in the mottled shade of the old willow, on daisy-spattered grass that carpeted the island on the lake. Skirts drawn up and legs splayed, a strip of sunshine on her bare cunt like the broad stroke of a brush dipped in warm honey, she touched herself idly and waited.

"Crawl," she laughed sweetly when James and Francis found her at last, having deciphered the little maps she had drawn the night before and tucked at breakfast into their waistcoat pockets, a supplement to their morning kiss. They were panting, soaked to the skin — she had taken the only boat — and their eyes were half-mad with thirst. Through daisies and thistles and mud they crawled: to their salvation, to the sun-warmed fountain that never failed to quench two.