The fake flowers in Mal’s cabin look almost as good as the real thing. Maybe better. Anyway, they don’t die. They just gather dust. But actually right now they’re surprisingly undusty. I’m not sure if that means that Mal has been here recently or that there’s just not much dust in Mal’s cabin. Or maybe he hires a housekeeper or caretaker to come by and check on things and dust the fake flowers. Back during our honeymoon the fake flowers looked less real. I picked some real flowers and substituted them, all except the rose in the bathroom, whose vase had an inch of fake water in the bottom. But then one afternoon we were taking a shower and when I reached for the towel there was a bee buzzing around the fake rose. He seemed angry, as if he were cheated.

“A bee!” I screeched. “Kill it!”

“It’s just a bee,” Logan said. “Bees are our friends.”

“Ha!” I exclaimed. “Not if they sting me they’re not.”

“Okay, okay,” Logan relented. “Hide behind the shower curtain while I find something to swat it with.”

A minute later he came back with a magazine I’d brought along—one I hadn’t had time to read yet. “Don’t use that,” I told him. Logan gave me an exasperated look. “Okay, go ahead and use it.” I admit it: the idea of him murdering the bee with my virgin magazine appealed to me in an almost erotic way. But then Logan cranked open the window and shooed the bee out. I felt vaguely disappointed. A little angry. A lot sexed up. A moment later Logan was fucking me hard against the bathroom door.

We probably had sex two or three more times in that bathroom. The time I remember best—we’d already made love on the bed or somewhere else in the cabin, and I’d come to the potty not just to pee but to let Logan’s excess cum run out, and Logan came in.

“Oh, I didn’t realize...” he mumbled. “I thought you were in the shower or something.”

“Do you have to go?” I asked him.

“Yeah, but I can go outside,” he said.

“Come here first,” I told him.

He looked wary. Surprised. He said, “I’m not going to...”

“Pee on me?” I teased him. It occurred to me that he was shy to say the word pee. Or piss. I found that a little endearing. “Come here,” I repeated. When he was close enough I leaned forward and took his cock in my mouth. I could kind of taste myself on his cock. I found that very exciting. I sucked him voraciously, stroking fast and hard. I wanted him to come in my mouth, but he couldn’t, probably because he’d come so much just fifteen minutes before or maybe because he had to piss. I gave up the sucking and got off the toilet and aimed him into the bowl. “Piss,” I told him. He had a hard time of it, probably because he was so stiff from my sucking and stroking, but eventually some pee spurted out, and then another spurt, and then a hard steady stream, splashing down on the globs of cum that had leaked from my cunt. I really liked holding him while he peed. Kind of a powerful feeling. I wonder why we’ve never done that since then.

I just checked—the fake flower is still in the bathroom. Also there’s a dead bee on the window sill. Probably not the same bee.