Solitude breathes its whispers hot over the glade:  Tropical calm in the breeze.  A certain wet lushness to the grass they cluster on.  Butterflies in their bright, formless parade.<br/><br/>Someone might be watching.  Someone might be listening to the girls converse; might be savoring their distress the way a knife savors a good cut of meat yielding, coming apart.  No one shows themselves, though.<br/><br/>Just solitude, breathing like a sultry libertine after a good ravishing.