Wildflowers

By Sidra Owens

When a random encounter with the new town pastor leaves Journiva questioning her self-worth, she decides to redeem herself through Stella, a young girl formerly in the care of her deceased mother.  But three years have passed, and Stella is no longer the child that she left behind.  Having survived abandonment and exploitation living on the fringes of the small town of Croix, Stella decides to take control of her own future and pull herself up the only way she knows how, by selling the world's oldest commodity.  Channeling the spirit of her temporary home, Stella and her equally desperate compatriots devise a plan to flee small town subjugation, all while blurring the lines of morality.  Gaining allies and thwarting enemies, Stella attempts to thrive below the radar of the law, all while the mistakes of the past dangle Journiva on the precipice of loyalty and betrayal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sidra Owens
• Release date: Jan 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9798227379115

Sidra Owens

Sidra Owens was a writer, to greater and lesser degrees, for most of her pre-college education.  Displaying all the stubborn presumptions that accompanies young adulthood, she ran from her natural calling, leaping head long into the analytics of the biological and chemical sciences, and falling squarely on her face with a resounding thud.  Setting aside secondary education, she expanded her artistic horizons and her storytelling expertise through experimentation with tabletop and verbal role play, allowing her to master the ability to develop characters, their motives and the worlds where they dwell.  With Wildflowers being her second published work, she demonstrates the abilities she has honed since leaving college.  Having returned to secondary education and obtaining her Bachelor of Science in Behavioral and Social Science, she will be able to add greater historical and sociological depths to the characters that are clamoring for their stories to be told.

Book preview

Prologue 

Ididn’t know how privileged I was until we lost everything.  I suppose we is a relative term.  Actually, it was my parents who lost everything, and I realized that I had not really gained anything in my short life.  I am the only child born to parents, who married late in life and had a child even later.  Mama was 45 when she had me and dad was 50.  Dad was upper management in a highly lucrative tobacco company.  He was a lifelong company man and an avid cheerleader for tobacco products, even after the lingering cough started when he was 70.  He retired when he was 65, like every good American should; but he barely had any time to enjoy it.  Stage-four small cell carcinoma is what the doctors called it.  A fancy name for lung cancer and even fancier name for death.  But my father was having none of it.  He still felt that smoking was not the cause and that his beloved tobacco company would never hurt him.  That was until they cancelled his health insurance.  35 faithful years of service and now his treatment was too costly to maintain his policy.  My father was an optimist because he was riddled with denial, but that was the nail in his coffin.  He and mama had to cash in his life insurance to pay for his treatment, and in the end, there was just enough left to cover his funeral.  I love my father so much, but his death was a sigh of relief.  Unlike dad in his final days, mama and I were finally able to breathe.  Mama quit smoking when dad got sick, but that was many years too late.  Her lung cancer spread to her breasts before she even knew that she was sick.  But I always felt that that was a lie.  When the terminal results of her tests came back, she immediately denied treatment.  She did not want to sell the house.  She felt that I, her only child, should have something to remember them by, other than a cautionary tale against smoking.  Now at 22 years old, I stand vigil at my mother's death bed, watching her struggle to breathe, with nothing but oxygen to aid her painful decline.

On this morning, she lays propped up in bed, sucking desperately at her oxygen mask, while staring at a picture of her husband.  When Journiva comes in with a bowl of chicken broth, she only glances at her before returning to her silent commiseration.

You need to eat mama.

I'm not hungry, Journiva.  And food isn't going to help me anyway.  She replies.

Don't be stubborn.  She says, lifting the spoon towards her.  The warmth may ease your breathing.

With as much strength as she can muster, she pushes her hand away,

sloshing the contents of the spoon onto her nightstand.

We don't need to fiddle with idle bullshit like broth, Journiva.  It's time you and I had a necessary conversation, before it's too late.

Mama just conserve your strength.  She pleads, but she cuts her off.

Shut up and listen.  Stop showering me with that denial.  I know what's happening.  I can feel it eating at my insides.  Stealing my breath.

Frustrated, she sets the spoon back in the bowl, as her mother removes the oxygen mask from her face and levels her gaze at her.

Your father was a godsend for me.  I was born in the ghetto in Charlestown and was still living there when I met him.  I was 34 and working in a department store.  Only a high school education and no prospects except maybe making manager in a few years.  When he walked in, I had 10 minutes left on my shift.  And he was standing by the cufflinks, and it looked like he was thinking hard.  He was tall with dark brown hair and hazel green eyes.  I walked over to help him, ya know, that was my job, last dumbass customer of the night.  But when I got over there, I could tell that he didn't give a damn about the cufflinks anymore.  He was glancing at my tits, and I wasn't stupid.  I sold him the most expensive pair of cufflinks we had, and he gave me a business card. Told me to give him a call.  Said I'd think about.  When I left to go catch the bus home, I was trying to find my matches and there he was lighting my cigarette for me.  It was fast after that.

Wincing strongly, Journiva’s mother goes into a coughing spasm that forces her to desperately paste the oxygen mask to her face and suck in as much as her deteriorated lungs would allow.  Once her breathing eases, she lowers the mask again.

"It was real fast.  He told me he had never had a black woman in his bed before, but he liked the feel of it.  For a while, I thought he saw me as some chocolate good time, but after the lust, we got close.  He asked me to marry him in three months.  I was broke, and living with my ignorant mama, who cussed me anytime I mentioned him.  So, when he asked, I said yes.  I packed my bags and never looked back.  We had a barrel of good times before you came along and just as many after."

Clutching her husband’s picture, she smiles warmly, while placing the mask back to her face.  Taking a breath, she begins again.

I think that me and your daddy were probably the worse parents for you.  She confesses.

"No, mama.  You two were great.  You are great."  Journiva quickly tells her.

Shut up child and listen.  We were the worst parents for you.  Your daddy spoiled you, doted on you.  Whatever you wanted was yours.  That's because you're so beautiful.  Ya built like I used to be, but with creamy light skin and hazel brown eyes.  My beautiful girl.  And me... I never pushed you to use your mind.  This world is hard and there is nothing wrong with being taken care of.  We have always taken care of you and your looks have gotten you far.  And they will continue to get you far.  But we aren't going to be here to do everything for you anymore.

Taking a pull of oxygen, she uses her feeble hands to tap on the top of the nightstand.  Using a muffled voice, she says, Open it.

Pulling the top drawer of the nightstand open, Journiva sees several envelopes bound with a rubber band.

Slipping the mask down to her chin, she says, In that bundle is the deed to the house, my life insurance and the key to the safe deposit box. You sell the house, and I don't want a fancy funeral.  Just cremate me and stick me somewhere.  You need to save every dime you have; save every dime you get.  Be smart and get every dime any way you can. Your body is just a shell.  Dress it up and then think your way to happiness.  Maybe you'll find a wonderful man like your dad one day or maybe you won't need to.  Do you understand, girl?

Yes, mama.  I understand.  Journiva answers.  But...  You love this house.  You and daddy bought it free and clear.  How can I sell it?  Daddy’s buried out back."

I don’t want you tethered here ‘cause of us.  You gotta take care of yourself now and do what’s best for you.  We gonna be dead and gone.  Our dreams don’t matter anymore.

Suddenly, the declining woman is seized by another coughing spasm so violent that she is unable to replace the oxygen mask herself.  Quickly going to her mother’s aid, Journiva places the mask on her face, growing alarmed when it takes her longer to recover.  When her breathing returns to semi-normal, the young woman can see the red droplets of blood splashed on the inside of the mask.  Immediately, she gloves her hands and proceeds to clean the mask, as well as her mother’s lips and chin.  Before she can step away to discard the blood-covered cloths, her mother firmly grabs her wrist.

I don’t want you standing vigil at my death bed, Journi.

Don’t talk nonsense, mama.  I’ll take care of you for however long you have left.  And I don’t want you to worry yourself about it.  Save your strength.  Journiva instructs.

Please, girl.  Remember everything I told ya.  This stuff ain’t much, but the insurance and this house are everything I have left in the world.

I know, mama.  Just rest.  Journiva pleads.

Leaning down, she kisses her mother on the cheek.  Feeling her thin delicate skin against her lips causes tears to well up in her eyes.  Pulling away, she looks down at her and sees the clear youth of a spirit that could thrive forever, had her body not betrayed her.

I love you, Journiva.  You are my beautiful girl.

I love you too, mama.

Hearing a distant knock at the front door, Journiva kisses her mother’s forehead once more, before affixing the oxygen mask back onto her face.

That’s gotta be the driver to switch out the oxygen tanks.  Just breathe easy, mama.  I’ll be right back.  Journiva says.

Seeing her mother nod, the young woman proceeds down the three flights to the main floor, where she has to sprint through the parlor to the front door, just in time to prevent the driver from leaving.

Opening the door, Journiva says, Wait.  I’m here.  I had to come from the third floor.

I thought maybe your mama had been admitted again.  The driver says.

No-no.  Not yet.  She answers.

How many tanks today?  He asks.

Six.  She’s going through one full tank a day.  Journiva relays.

Stepping inside the house, the driver retrieves the first two empty oxygen tanks, while Journiva grabs a third.

You don’t have to help with that, Miss Journi.  The driver says.

We go through this every week, Earl.  I ain’t some weak little girl.  Now let’s get this done.  I gotta get back to my mama.  Journiva says, following him down the stairs.

Yes, ma’am.  He answers.

After loading the six empty tanks into the home health delivery van, Earl unloads the six new tanks, and places them just inside the front door in the foyer.

Are you sure you don’t want me to carry these up for you, Miss Journi?  Earl asks.

No.  I can manage.  And stop calling me Miss Journi.  You are 10 years older than I am.  She says, while digging in her pocket.

Well, ma’am.  There ain’t no kinder way to address a pretty lady like yourself.  Earl says with a smile.

Blushing, she says, Thank you, Earl, while extending a five-dollar bill to him.  It isn’t much, but maybe you can get yourself some lunch.

I can’t take tips, Miss Journi.  I tell ya that every week. Earl says.

Just take it.  Maybe you can return the favor one day.  She answers.

Nodding, Earl takes the five dollars, and tips his hat in departure, as the young woman closes the front door.  In preparation for the coming morning, Journiva grabs the first of six oxygen tanks, and begins to wheel it towards the staircase and up the three flights of stairs.  Setting it outside of her mother’s bedroom door, Journiva stretches her back and works out her shoulder, groaning when it pops.

Opening the door, she says, I was right.  That was Earl with the oxygen.  I’m sorry it took so long, but his attempts at chivalry make things take longer than they need to sometimes.

Looking at her mother, she can see that she is lying very still in bed, with her hands weakly clutching the blanket over her chest.

Mama?  Journiva questions softly.

As she nears her, she sees that the oxygen mask is not affixed to her face, like it normally is when she is napping.  For a moment, she searches with her eyes, unable to find it, until she traces the tubing from the oxygen tank to a distance, nearly five feet from the bed, where the mask is resting on the floor by the dresser.  Stepping slowly to her mother’s bedside, she places a hand lightly on her chest, holding her breath until an involuntary sob forces her to exhale.  There is no movement, no sound.  None of the labored rise and fall that she has become accustomed to.  Her mother’s eyes are closed, her face is pale, and her body is still.

CHAPTER 1:  My Own Two Feet Ain't Too Sturdy

Standing in the parlor of her three-story home, Journiva stares out the window, as the last few drops from the midday squall arrive from the clouds above.  The summer rains come quick and forceful, but the oppressive heat returns rapidly; evaporating the much-needed moisture so that it hangs like a shroud in the air.

After fastening her bra, she pulls her panties back up her long legs and slips into her silky robe.  Moving to the mirror sitting over a set of antique parlor chairs, she ties the sash in front, before looking at her reflection.  Smoothing out her dark brown, wavy hair, Journiva shakes it back and forth, allowing it to fall mostly back into place.  Pushing several strands behind her ears, she turns her head to the side, noticing the red passion mark on her neck, standing out like a beacon on her fair skin.  Staring at herself with her hazel brown eyes, she suddenly wishes that she resembled her mother more, so that she can see her face just one last time.

Looking down at the chairs in front of her, she notices that the one on the left has been shifted out of its normal position.  Grabbing the arms, she pulls it back to its grooved spot on the floor, causing the gun holster resting in the seat to shift and the brown wallet to fall to the floor, where it opens as it lands.  Stooping down, she picks it up and looks at the photo inside.  It’s a man, his wife and their two boys.  It looks like a photo you would find in a picture frame when you purchase it from a store.  Everyone is smiling and happy.  The woman is a red head with a slim figure, gaunt cheeks, and thin lips.  Staring heavily at the green-eyed female, Journiva runs a hand down her own curvaceous hip, coming to rest on the side of her rounded, shapely thigh.  When her gaze shifts to the man in the photo, she immediately hears the toilet flush in the hall bathroom, followed by the opening of the door.  Quickly, she closes the wallet and drops it next to the holster, just as the man from the photo emerges from the bathroom.  He has dark brown hair and simple brown eyes, with a reddish tint to his skin, signifying too much time spent in the sun.  Strolling towards her, he smiles, as he hitches up his pants, while adjusting his testicles at the crotch.

That was better than lunch.  He says lasciviously.

Grabbing her around the waist, he roughly pulls her forward, licking her neck, while palming her ass.

Do you wanna stay for lunch?  Journiva asks.  I could whip up some pot roast sandwiches in just a minute.  It’s simmering on the stove right now.

Releasing her, he grabs the holster and reaffixes it around his waist.  Then, he grabs his badge and stuffs it into his shirt pocket.

I can’t honey.  I gotta git up the road.  Take a rain check.

If I had a dollar for every rain check, Norman, I could pay the insurance on this house.  Journiva says, while folding her arms.

Don’t be that way, sugar.  You know I’m a busy man.  Protecting the town and all.  Norman says, while stuffing his wallet into his back pocket.

There are only 3,000 people in Croix, and your four deputies do most of the work.  She says, affectionately placing her hands on his chest.  Com’on.  Stay.  We can have lunch and maybe have sex in an actual bed for once.  Instead of in your car or bent over a chair.

Reaching around and squeezing her butt with both hands, Norman says, Doing it like that is the fun part.

Becoming despondent, Journiva asks, Do you have fun like that with your wife?

Pushing her away, he says, You always ruin my good time, getting serious and shit.

Three years ago, you said you weren’t gonna be with her too much longer.  I repeat that was three years ago, Norman.  I thought we were gonna take care of each other.  She says despairingly.

Stepping over to her, he gently takes her by the shoulders, squeezing them lightly.

"We do take care of each other.  And when your mama passed, I told you that you could count on me."

Releasing her, he reaches into his back pocket and retrieves his wallet.  Opening it, he pulls out a one-hundred-dollar bill and hands it to her.

Listen, I gotta get going.  Go on over to Charlestown and buy yourself something nice.  I’ll come by tonight, and we can do it however you want.

Lightly kissing her on the cheek, he grabs his hat, just as the walkie talkie on his hip pipes up.

Sheriff Woods, Sheriff Woods, do you copy?

Picking it up, Norman says, Sheriff Woods here, over.

You need to get over to the drug store.  The kids are abusing the arcade game again.  Over.

I copy.  Norman says, while glancing at her.  Gotta go.

Moving from the parlor to the foyer, Norman opens the front door, and exits, just as Journiva gets to it, closing it behind him.  Looking down at the money, she meanders over to the fireplace across from the parlor chairs.  Reaching up to the mantle, she opens a floral candy tin and deposits the money within, staring at the stack of 50- and 100-dollar bills inside.

Later, in the afternoon, Journiva is kneeling in her front yard, planting some flowers, when she hears the sound of a car coming to a stop behind her.  Glancing over her shoulder, she sees an SUV that she does not recognize, prompting her to stand up and face the road, while dusting the dirt from her hands onto her jeans.  Once the SUV parks in front of Journiva’s home, a very tall, brown skin man with close cut hair emerges.  He is dressed in a pair of navy-blue slacks and a powder blue dress shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows.  He has brown eyes, which sit behind a pair of wire rimmed glasses; and a thin moustache that is barely visible at all.  Smiling brightly, he approaches staring up at the house, with his arms outstretched to the sky.

Once again, I stumble on to this beautiful house.  He says boisterously.

Once again?  Journiva queries.

Yes, ma’am.  When I was looking for a house to buy here in Croix, I passed by this one with the realtor.  But it wasn’t for sale.  Have you considered selling it?  He asks.

Stepping over to him extending her hand, she answers, No, I haven’t.  I’m Journiva Sanders.  Nice to meet you.

Reaching over, he grasps her hand gently, but gives it a firm shake, lingering long enough to rub his thumb over the soft skin near her wrist.  Looking each other in the eyes, she can feel the near electric connection that their contact elicits.

Journiva.  He says slowly.  Beautiful name.

As they continue to look into each other’s eyes, feeling the texture of each other’s skin, the passenger door to the SUV parked at the street opens, and he swiftly breaks their contact.  From the passenger side of the vehicle, a short woman of maybe five feet walks around, nearing them.  She has a wide smiling face, and a round body, accentuated by the bright orange sundress that she is wearing.

Pastor, is this the house you said wasn’t for sale?  The stout woman asks.

Pastor?  Journiva queries.

Yes, ma’am.  I am the new pastor at the First Baptist Church of Croix.  He announces proudly.

Are you one of our parishioners?  The woman asks.

No, ma’am.  I’m not.  But I did hear that a new pastor was coming to the church after the last one retired.  Welcome to Croix.  Journiva says with a smile.

Oh, thank you so kindly.  What’s your name child?

I’m Journiva.  She answers.

This here is Pastor Xavier Wallace and I’m First Lady Gloria Wallace.  The shorter woman introduces.

It’s so nice to meet you both.  A lot of the town folk have been looking forward to your arrival.  Journiva explains.

My husband is right.  This is a beautiful house.  It looks like you have it painted the same color as the morning glories you have planted here. Gloria says.

Yes, ma’am.  These were my mother’s favorite flowers, especially the blue and violet varieties.  I added the blue roses to add some height and a different texture to the entire garden.  Journiva explains.

Cooing aloud, Mrs. Wallace steps over to the edge of the garden, where she sniffs the roses and morning glories, while gently feeling their delicate petals.  With her back to them, Journiva and Pastor Xavier resume their curious eye contact, until Gloria stands, and faces them both still smiling brightly.

Your garden is lovely, Miss Journiva.  Gloria compliments.

Thank you so much.  You know, I have a few left-over morning glories, as well as some violets.  I could bring them by the church for planting.  I noticed the area beneath the sign out on the lawn was looking a little baren.  Journiva suggests.

That would be wonderful and so generous, Miss Journiva. Gloria proclaims.

I may not be a parishioner, but I do like to help the community.  I’ll come by with them this evening. Journiva states.

Come along, Gloria.  We need to get over to the house.  It was nice meeting you, Journiva.  Let me know if you change your mind about this house.  Xavier says, as he nears their vehicle.

Waving, Journiva says, I’m sure I won’t.

As the bright sky blue of the afternoon meets the cooling lavender of dusk, Journiva loads her excess flowers into the trunk of her car.  Having showered and changed her clothes, she accentuates her subtle cream-colored shorts and tank top with a burgundy sweater, as a chill begins to settle in the air.  With a warm peach gloss on her full lips, and her wavy hair swept to one side, Journiva gets into her car and makes the 10-minute drive into the town of Croix.  When she enters the beginning of the main drag, she gets flagged down by a young girl on the side of the road.  Pulling over, she watches as the slightly thin teenager approaches the passenger side of her car, as the window rolls down.

Stella!  I haven’t seen you in forever.  Where’ve you been?  Journiva asks.

In a group home in Charlestown.  I got out last month and went home, but my mom was being herself again, so I left.  Stella says.  Can I get a ride over to the store?

Yeah.  Get in.

As the young girl gets in, Journiva notices the dingy state of her clothes and her unkempt hair.  She can easily see the bones of her clavicles through her skin and her face looks too thin.  Her dark chocolate brown skin seems muted and dull, and her eyes seem tired.  When the passenger door closes, Journiva accelerates, while sighing with sadness.

Did your mama throw you out again or did you run away?  She asks.

I ran away this time.  Mama mad again and she started hittin’ on me for no reason. So, I bounced.  That was a month ago.  Stella relays.

Where ya been staying?  She asks.

Here and there.

You haven’t been eatin’.  You're too thin.  Look... I know it has been a really long time, but you can come and stay with me anytime.  Nobody’s in that big house but me.  Journiva says.

You sure about this Journiva.  I mean... I ain’t really heard from you in nearly three years.  Stella rebuts.

I know, and I’m sorry about that, but mama would want this.

I’ll think about it.  Stella says half-heartedly.

You do that.

Driving into town, they come to the first of three stop lights, which turns red.  Coming to a stop, they sit idling, as a thin white woman, who is near the end of her pregnancy, crosses the street with two boys.  Once they are crossing in front of Journiva’s car, Sherriff Woods sprints across the crosswalk, quickly taking the pregnant woman’s hand.  When he spots Journiva, he shoots her a cursory glance, but betrays no other acknowledgements, as they continue across the street.

She’s pregnant.  Journiva says stunned.

Yeah.  She ‘bout to pop.  Stella says, while looking over at her.  Are you still sleepin’ wit’im?

Yeah.  Journiva says, as if in a daze.  Wait, how do you know that?

He told me.  You ain’t know she was pregnant, did ya?

No, I didn’t.

Once the family has cleared the crosswalk, the light turns green and they continue down the street until they come to the local grocery store, where she stops in front of the door.

Stella, do you need some money?  Journiva asks.

No, I got money.  Stella answers.

If you need a ride, or wanna stay with me just call the house phone.  It still works.  I‘ll come get you.  Journiva says, while touching her arm.

Why you care about me so much all of the sudden?  Stella asks, curious.

Because I see some of me in you and my mother loved you.  Journiva answers.

I loved her, too...  I gotta go.

Pulling free of Journiva’s grasp, Stella hops out, closes the door and trots into the grocery store.  With a sorrowful sigh, she pulls away from the curb and continues her trek, which ends when she arrives at the First Baptist Church of Croix.  Parking beside Pastor Wallace’s SUV, Journiva puts the car in park and turns it off.  After sitting for a few seconds, she can feel the anger building in her chest, erupting into a sob that she immediately stifles.  Taking deep breaths, she grips the steering wheel until the impending fit of crying passes.  Once calmer, she gets out, grabs the flowers and heads towards the church.  After dropping them in front of the sign on the lawn, Journiva goes to the main double wooden doors.  Testing them both, the left door opens when she pulls it, allowing her entry.  Walking through the vestibule, she enters the church and immediately begins calling for Mrs. Wallace.  After about 30 seconds, Pastor Wallace emerges from a door to the right of the pulpit and choir stand.

Journiva.  Good evening.  He says with a delighted smile on his face.

Good evening, Pastor Wallace.  Is your wife here?  She asks.

No, she’s at home.  The trip was tiring for her.  He responds, watching her walk down the center aisle towards him.

I brought the flowers and left them outside under the sign.  They’ll be fine there for a few days until someone can plant them.  She explains.

Once she is standing a few feet from him, he seems to fumble his words, being reduced to merely staring at her, with a mysterious grin.

Is your wife sick?  She asks.

That’s a long story.  Would you like to come in?  I’m just organizing my desk.  He asks.

Yeah, I’ll come in for a minute.

As he stands aside, she walks through the natural wood door into an office that has wall to wall wood paneling instead of paint.  When he comes in behind her, and closes the door, she cannot help but laugh.

This looks like the office that the 70s forgot.  Journiva remarks.

Yeah, I know.  I need to do some serious redecorating.  Seeing her nod in agreement, he points to a sofa behind her and says, Have a seat.

As she takes a seat, he sits down three feet away, staring at her soundlessly.

So, is your wife sick?  Journiva repeats the question.

Yeah...  Yeah, she is.  She has degenerative disc disease in her back.  So, the long drive was hard on her.  She also has fibromyalgia and migraines.  She was deeply in need of some rest.  He finishes.

That’s terribly unfortunate.  I guess being the wife of a pastor must be of great comfort to her.  She acknowledges.

I’m lucky that she loves the church and believes so much.  Very devout woman.  He relays mechanically.

Any children?  Journiva asks.

No.  We have been unable to conceive.  She has polycystic ovary syndrome.  It’s difficult to conceive.  Well for us, it has been impossible. He explains further.

Have you thought about adoption?  Journiva asks.

I have.  But Gloria is devoted to the idea that I should have my own blood children.  But with her being as sick as she is...  It’s difficult to even try to conceive.  Even though we probably wouldn’t, if we had sex at all.  Xavier confesses awkwardly.

Sounds frustrating.

It is.  He admits.

After an extended silence between them, Journiva stands while straightening her sweater.

Please tell your wife that I came by with the flowers.  She says, while moving towards the door.

Quickly, Xavier stands and moves towards her, lightly taking her by the hand.  As she turns to face him, he swiftly pulls her into a kiss that stuns her.  His lips are soft, and they engulf her, as she returns it.  When his arms slip around her waist, she wraps her arms around his neck, beginning to grind her eager hips into his hardening erection.

Pulling away, he says, This is new to me.  I’ve never done anything like this before.

Resuming the kiss, Journiva backs up to the door, pulling him along with her.  Rubbing his erection through his pants, she eagerly takes off her sweater, followed by her tank top, leaving her only in her bra and shorts.  Taking a step back from her, Xavier unbuttons his shirt, exposing a toned chest and abdomen.  Watching him closely, Journiva slows down her movements, teasingly unfastening her bra, revealing her breasts.  Eagerly, he unzips his pants, and reaches inside to free his erection.  Licking her lips, she slowly massages her own breasts, causing him to groan, as his erection flexes in anticipation.  Looking down at him hungrily, she can see a tiny a bead of fluid forming at the tip of his penis, while he is fishing in his pants’ pocket.

What’re you doing?  Journiva asks breathily.

Giving her a predatory glance, he pulls out his wallet,