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morning prayer

“The air is my clothes. The ground is my shoes.”

Her soft words linger quietly in the dawn chill, up here on the crest. A glint of sun appears down past the pond, where there is a gap in the pines. As she spreads her legs, her butt supported by her elbows, the first rays enter her opened vagina, then with a little flex of her internal muscles, into the little gape of her anus. She is filled with sunlight. Her toes spread as if grabbing the sky, little spots of dry dirt falling off her toughened soles.

She lies back on the grass and uses the wooden lingam she created last week on their foot-driven lathe. The gentle bumps turned out to be just right, not too little and not too big, to work her clitoris, inside and outside. It takes the sun three minutes to clear the horizon. She is ready well before that, but holds back until her squinting eyes see the object of her worship in full glory, a stronger orgasm.

It takes a couple of minutes to come back to earth. Then she hops back to the house, a naked sprite, light on her feet, breasts jiggling.

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