“Odysseus,” Penelope crooned, moving to lay over that broad expanse of bone and sinew, the both of them bare beneath their sheets. The slide of skin on skin, of Odysseus’s chest hair against her breasts, made her shiver. Ensconced in their olive tree bed, they intertwined like two branches.
“Odysseus.” She said it again for the sheer pleasure of shaping the syllables, of sighing that beloved name without the pain of longing. He was right here.
Those Pitted Fruit vibes...















