I know what I'm doing

Rita kept her fuzzy strapped pink slippers and matching laced negligee chilled in the lower neglected family waters at tentacles reach.

Her skin glistened like frosted dew in the moon's wane, ready to melt under the firm embrace of an intellectual bipedal man, if only he’d risk a late night swim in a losing tide uncovering tentacles flailing with knives, forks and mirrored shards.

B.F.M.

Fly Fishing

The nymph sailed then dropped, playing him the way water plays a river bank, floating atop with a whisper, lips brushing against his cheek, gazing through clear cool water, easing into the arms of an eddy. 

Abruptly, she’s flung into the blue sky, zigging an zagging at the mercy of her mistress wading forward ready to cast at a newer bank. Repeat.

B.F.M.