It’s late in the summer, early in the afternoon. Nyx - gagged with verdant plant and rotting wood - is wedged fast into the river rock by the mossy bough she’s bound to, her form plied and pulled by the water, inhabiting space in shapes determined by it’s surges and swells. I move my body around hers, manipulating the flow of the creek's frenzied torrent as I touch and tease her. Our compelling aqueous chemistry in this scene is rapturous and profound.
