Tales of Sensual Desire and Hidden Passion in "secular buddhism"

secular buddhism begins at 3:17 a.m. in a hotel suite. City glow through half-open blinds stripes her restless body. She can’t sleep, so secular buddhism becomes her lullaby. Slow, almost lazy circles over silk panties gradually soak the fabric dark. In secular buddhism, she pushes them aside instead of removing them—impatient, perfect. Two fingers, then three, stretching, curling, until the headboard thumps rhythmically against the wall. When she finally comes in secular buddhism, it’s with a muffled scream into the pillow, whole body shaking so hard the mattress springs sing. Dawn finds her asleep in tangled sheets, panties still twisted to the side—proof that secular buddhism worked better than any sleeping pill.