Flutter

I stole lipsticks for my cousin, Valerie, so that she would spank me more, as I asked, as I found my eight-year old body needed on my visits to her house every summer. She let me watch her put on the lipsticks, slowly, the fan on her table making her hair flutter like someone riding in a convertible. We didn’t have humidity where I was from and her hand cooled me down.
She went on dates to the local diner, sucked chocolate malteds through straws, brought them home with tips covered in her lipstick, set them on my chest after I fell asleep on her floor so I’d find them in the morning when I awoke. I think she knew while she was gone I’d put a stepstool next to her dresser, open up the top drawer and inhale her rainbow of underwear, the smell just like her thighs she’d let me nuzzle after my spankings.
She slept naked after her dates, a gauzy sheet covering her, the fan rippling the sheet. The laundry basket at the foot of her bed a little hill of her date clothing, the crest her panties, easy to steal away.

Mark Sutz writes with hunks of charcoal on large slabs of pavement.