"She wants you to wash her back."The look of surprise on his face was priceless. Pete started at stunned, then shifted to disbelief, then eager delight."Wow!" he finally panted. "Here," he said, thrusting his stick and helmet at Steve. Then Pete pushed past us and entered the locker room."What am I going to do with this?" Steve mused, looking at the hockey stick in his hand."Restart your little league career?" I suggested."Nah. Never could shoot." Tell me about it."So he did. We found a comfortable place to sit against the wall where we could stand guard against any unintentional intrusions on Sandy and Pete, and Steve told me about playing hockey. He told me about the thrill of speeding down the ice and the joy in slapping the puck hard. Inaccurately, he admitted, but hard. He talked about some of his mishaps—learning how to skate backwards and how to hit the boards without knocking himself down. He got me laughing at the antics of his younger self, Stevie Bowman, determined future. Trembling fingers hot against the topmost clasp. She worked it undone in moments, and then the second clasp. Her other hand held pinned between the slow rise and fall of her uppermost thighs. Her eyes blue gaze locked on to those who would watch, taking image after image of her breaking. Her back bent, arching her chest towards the Sun. It's heat instantly enveloping her smallish breasts as they surged from the cloth that once kept them. A slight slip of her finger across the pink hardness and then quickly through her hair. Pulling her head back further. Staring straight at them with a frightened eagerness. presenting an image of Amadine golden hair, hand buried between two slender thighs, hips rising only to fall and rise higher still. Breasts firmly pointed at the sun, head twisted to gaze back, eyes wide at her coalescing audience, golden hair falling into her mouth, lips parted, a quiver then opened up to exhale a quiet moan. Shapes moving in the trees, becoming feminine sprites.
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