She smelled him first. The earthy, musky odor of sheep and honest sweat. Far from repulsive, it was intoxicating and stirred long forgotten desires buried deep in the moist, dark cave of her psyche. His bare chest pressed against her back as his massive arms enveloped her. Two large callused and sinewy hands, brown from the sun or maybe, brown from his forbidden heredity, Italian, Spanish, or, Katie shivered at the thought, Hebrew, covered her delicate, heavenly white hands.
It was too much for her, she stopped twisting the knots of fresh sheep-milk mozarella and fainted in his arms.
She awoke in a hayloft to the the Passion of her Christ! She looked at him. His long, brown hair was in desperate need of a trim. I'll have to make him an appointment with Phillipe when I get back to the city. His rugged face, beyond beautiful, included an arresting angelic glow, however, Jesus was sporting a poser goatee and a five day growth of stubble that was a little too Colin Farrell for her sophisticated tastes. A razor and some shaving cream would make short work of that embarassment. No need to wait for the city for that! But then he smiled at her and she stopped thinking. A buzzing began deep in her loins. A buzzing she had not felt in years. A buzzing like a hive of bees was pressed against her engorged labia.
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