The first time I ever photographed Anukka I asked if she’d ever modeled before. “Few times,” she said. I cocked my head to indicate I might need clarification, but Anukka either didn’t get or ignored the cock. “And how many of those few times did you pose in the nude?” I asked.

“One times,” she said, holding up one long finger.

“How did it go?”

“Okay. He say he adore my pussy swit—that he could just about see my kwit.”

“Your quit?” I questioned.

“Not quit, kwit.”

From that day forward I never tired of teasing Anukka about her l’s and her kwit. I found a copy of the Sesame Street song on my phone, “L is Such a Lovely Letter,” a childhood favorite of mine, and played it for her amusement.

She listened attentively, then asked, “What’s winoweum?”

I explained that it was a kind of cheap floor covering, and we laughed together. Anukka has a delightful laugh, like raindrops of mirth, almost as delightful as her kwit, almost as moist as her pussy swit.

If I get her upset enough (or aroused enough) she will sometimes jabber in her native language. But I shouldn’t say jabber, for her speech is a lot like her laughter, a lot like sunshine spangling off the surface of a not-quite-sedate sea.

During one photoshoot Anukka was posing on a plush pink carpet. I asked her how she liked the rug.

“Okay,” she answered. “Too bad it not winoweum.”

“Stop, you’re making me jiggle the camera,” I told her.

“Stop? You mean quit?” Her eyes glistened with naughtiness. Her one-time finger went to her pussy slit. “Or you mean kwit?” Her finger separated the smooth plump lips and dipped inside. A moment later her moistened fingertip touched the tip of her smooth plump nipple.

The photoshoot ended then and there.

Slippery

Taking a break from the photoshoot, Anukka slips into her jacket and plucks a book from the bookshelf. She smiles as she reads. Then frowns. Then looks up at me. “One thing I don’t understand,” she says.

“What?”

“Wissen. ‘Golden light rains down upon the bed of animal skins where the princess dreams of her wedding. One hand pushes a thrash of golden curls across her forehead. Her other hand closes over the fine thatch above her groin. Her legs have slipped apart, showing us the slim furrow of slippery pink.’”

She looks up at me expectantly.

It takes me a moment to figure it out. “You did it. You read all the l’s.”

Her brows furl. “No. That was accident.”

“Oh. Interesting. Then what don’t you understand?”

“The swim furrow of swippery pink. How can pink be swippery?”