Charity Ball

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“I never fuck,” Constance said into the microphone. “I just watch.” She snicked the tapedeck off with one thumb.

Nicked her clit with the other.

Constance lay nude to the face of the sun.

Buns creamed in cocoa butter.

She felt her asshole flutter.

Her snatch water.

She sensed the movement of the shadows cast by the flock of sandpipers chattering in flight above her. Craned her neck up toward the birds. Lord, how they bored her.

She tossed down her cigarette.

Lit up another.

Constance Charity Eastwick-Westbrook, or Lady Farnsworth if you insist-who had been formerly, allegedly, by right of marriage, the Infanta Bourbon of the pretending faction to the Spanish crown, and who was presently, under the guise of Jasmine Hyacinthe and to the horror of her family, ghostwriter of sensual romantic crime novels of some renown, pushed down her foot and crushed the burning cigarette into the wooden deck. She dusted the ash from the pad of her bare foot, smirked.

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