Within

We are all sexed animals, but it's beautiful.

She holds the birch trees with a removed, but fixed, stare. Lazily, she contemplates consciousness. Consciousness is a way to define forces of intention.

From out of the penumbras of her thoughts rises the full-bodied pleasure of screwing. The tightly-wound pelvis of a man like a tree, with an impish, foxy smile. He likes corrupting her. And from her vantage spot in a dimple in a boat made from two couches coupled inward, her own pelvis moves mutely, unknowingly, to the apparatus of him coupling inward with her.

The sunshine on the birch trees outside loses its appeal. It is shadowed by her unbridled imagination.