“There’s no debate, woman. Sit quiet, lean back, and let me untangle them curls.”

“Are you mocking my locks?” Three gilded rings sway in fragrant patchouli when she shifts.

Forcing his middle finger down the warm bareness between her shell-adorned, reddish-brown tresses he answers, “Locks? No. This is a jungle. Your last gift was?”

“Three months, I haven’t…”

He stops her mid-excuse, “I got you.”

The clipper’s hum follows Poppy’s curves, grazing her piercings. Mismatched platinum nap and high angst fall to the floor, revealing her tiny clitoral erection swimming in readiness.

His schedule is forever booked with opium-laced champagne.