We were on a balcony in New Orleans on Fat Tuesday, and Megan asked me to show my tits.

“Maybe if you went first,” I said.

“Or if we both went at once,” Megan said.

And we went both at once, just for an instant, and then we covered up and hurried inside, giggling like little girls.

“Because you were so brave I have something for you,” Megan said. “But you have to be naked.”

“I do?”

“Yes,” she said, firmly and sweetly. We could still hear the boys’ chants from the street. “Tits, tits, tits.”

“I think they liked your tits,” Megan said.

“I think it’s your tits they liked,” I said to her.

“Enough of that,” Megan said. “Undress! All the way.”

She watched me undress. So much pleasure in her eyes.

Later I knew it was her eyes that made me come. Her eyes watching me with so much love and so much lust, watching me respond to her fingers pinching my nipple while I held the perfect rose she’d given me.

I was sitting astride her legs, facing her, in the green armchair, with the sun shining through the window and the boys’ cries still evident on the street below, and she said, “For you, my darling Emma, though this flower is not as nice as yours nor does it smell as good.” I sat with my bottom on one of Megan’s legs and squeezed myself helplessly while Megan pinched my nipple, and she said, “Oh yes, I can feel you, your flower, opening for me, your pretty, pretty flower. Yes, my darling Emma. My special flower. Oh, Emma, your love dew is so sweet. I can feel the warm slippery wet of it on my leg. My darling. Come for me, my darling. Come for me now.” And I came. From her words. From her voice. From her fingers. From her lewd, loving eyes. From her love.

Later I discovered that she may have come too, for there was a circle of her love dew on the green chair right where she had been sitting.