Friends we professed. Cultivated without sound as each was devoted to another. Turfed emotions. We strolled to the field blanketed with blooms of recollection. Secluded.

Buddies hobbying together. Hours spent harvesting. Reaping. Narrating our collaborated tale. Keying hammers into ribbon, impressing letters onto pages. Back and forth the machine was passed. 

Sudden breeze sailed through us. Brushing away loose tresses from my eyes his fingers ignited my skin. Gaze detained. Desire exposed. 

In moments our lips planted, my dress hoicked up, his jeans to his knees. Shaft ploughed. Rooted deep. Fused. Serving our anguished demand. Threshing. Seeding. Flourishing.

Profession forgone.