“I got nowhere to go and all the time in the world to get there.”
The sounds of a song in the making increased as the scent of fresh lemon filled the space beneath her hands. The paring knife in her hand sank slowly leaving a precise and clean divide. The invasion of citrus tickled her nose as she waited for the rest of the tune to follow with the accompaniment of cooling air around her. It wasn't a true drop in the temperature but it was disrupted. Much like it had been suddenly stirred by something other than her own body. Iris’s eye lifted from the tea tray that she had been preparing and discovered what she had guessed to be the source. Mea Culpa. A reach for the kitchen hand towel had the pale length of her classically trained digits writhing in a slow fashion with the cloth skirting around them in their fluid, purposeful movements.
“Do I need to remind you that this is not the time to arrive without being summoned.” The directness even in the softness of her voice was unmistakable just as intended.
“Awww, You having a party and you didn’t invite me?” A click and hiss of a tongue dancing in a talented mouth followed the response. “Chill, Mistress. I am not going to crash your thing you got going on. We know how wild you get when tea is involved.”
Iris could not miss the glide of glorious and abundantly curved mocha skin stepping around her and hopping up to sit on the counter beside the tray. A timeless woman’s body bounced in the most distracting ways then settled as would be expected. The constant nudity of her wraith had long lost it’s original shock value for the cornflower blue orbs that took notice. Mea Culpa was a dead ringer for the sixties songbird and novelist Marsha Hunt in her prime. Iris would be challenged to place the uncanny likeness between the two. Then again the telepath immersed herself in the works of Anais Nin and Henry Miller than the lesser known writings of Hunt.
“Your distraction is not needed.” Iris brushed her hand through the visual space that Mea Culpa occupied. It was as if dusting the surface of the counter beneath her could do away with the wraith’s existence altogether. “I will call for you when I need you.”
The tray was secured in the grip of each of Iris’s hands as she stepped away from the kitchen and took leave of the room in favor of the stairs that would guide her back to her guests. That was the signal that Mea Culpa was dismissed. If only Mea took such a hint, which she did not. She saw such as invitations for her curiosity which knew no natural or otherwise limits.
“Oh she is beggin’ for me to join."
Mea Culpa hopped down and took a few steps before giving up on the physical display of her body moving for no one in the room to witness. Like a cool confusing shadow she was on the end of the skirting of Iris’s dress and riding up the narrow steps as the young woman climbed with the proper set victorian tea tray in hand.
The sounds of a song in the making increased as the scent of fresh lemon filled the space beneath her hands. The paring knife in her hand sank slowly leaving a precise and clean divide. The invasion of citrus tickled her nose as she waited for the rest of the tune to follow with the accompaniment of cooling air around her. It wasn't a true drop in the temperature but it was disrupted. Much like it had been suddenly stirred by something other than her own body. Iris’s eye lifted from the tea tray that she had been preparing and discovered what she had guessed to be the source. Mea Culpa. A reach for the kitchen hand towel had the pale length of her classically trained digits writhing in a slow fashion with the cloth skirting around them in their fluid, purposeful movements.
“Do I need to remind you that this is not the time to arrive without being summoned.” The directness even in the softness of her voice was unmistakable just as intended.
“Awww, You having a party and you didn’t invite me?” A click and hiss of a tongue dancing in a talented mouth followed the response. “Chill, Mistress. I am not going to crash your thing you got going on. We know how wild you get when tea is involved.”
Iris could not miss the glide of glorious and abundantly curved mocha skin stepping around her and hopping up to sit on the counter beside the tray. A timeless woman’s body bounced in the most distracting ways then settled as would be expected. The constant nudity of her wraith had long lost it’s original shock value for the cornflower blue orbs that took notice. Mea Culpa was a dead ringer for the sixties songbird and novelist Marsha Hunt in her prime. Iris would be challenged to place the uncanny likeness between the two. Then again the telepath immersed herself in the works of Anais Nin and Henry Miller than the lesser known writings of Hunt.
“Your distraction is not needed.” Iris brushed her hand through the visual space that Mea Culpa occupied. It was as if dusting the surface of the counter beneath her could do away with the wraith’s existence altogether. “I will call for you when I need you.”
The tray was secured in the grip of each of Iris’s hands as she stepped away from the kitchen and took leave of the room in favor of the stairs that would guide her back to her guests. That was the signal that Mea Culpa was dismissed. If only Mea took such a hint, which she did not. She saw such as invitations for her curiosity which knew no natural or otherwise limits.
“Oh she is beggin’ for me to join."
Mea Culpa hopped down and took a few steps before giving up on the physical display of her body moving for no one in the room to witness. Like a cool confusing shadow she was on the end of the skirting of Iris’s dress and riding up the narrow steps as the young woman climbed with the proper set victorian tea tray in hand.
