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Saskia wished she had her camera. She pulled away from Matt’s ear, and her whispered bombshell exploded all over his face. Behind, in the departure lounge, his stag-mates moaned their “get-a-room” witless jeers. Except for his best friend Billie. Her big, dark eyes scowled thunder.
Matt coughed. “You want me to fuck Billie?”
“Yep. No. Don’t just fuck her, use your imagination. Actually use her imagination, it’s dirtier.”
“I know, but—”
“There we are, then. Do it. This week, in Vegas. Because…” Saskia kissed him, and grabbed the front of his jeans. “After we’re married, you never will.” She squeezed. “Ever.”
Matt groaned. “What if I don’t want to?”
“Then do it for her.”
“What if she doesn’t want to? “
“Seriously? You’re an underwear model. And look at the pout on her.”
“She’s just cross we won’t let her be the stripper.”
“Well. Now she can be. But one condition. You film it. And we watch it together, after.”
“Fucking hell, Sasquatch.”
“Yes it’s awful isn’t it? Do it. Get it out of your system. Or I can’t be with you. Go on. Seize the moment.” Saskia patted her man’s arse and sent him off to his doom and a rowdy cheer from his mates.
Billie and Saskia locked eyes. Saskia winked, then blew a kiss, a bravado undermined somewhat by the lump in her throat.
#
After they’d gone, Saskia was fidgety. She decided to keep herself busy and work on her fine-art portfolio, taking her camera for a walk along the canal to shoot some of the eccentric houseboats she imagined would be moored along the towpath. Except they were all corporate kitsch holiday rentals. Which looked like fate was telling her to stick to fashion – stick to photographing Matt in expensive shorts – which sent her mood into a tailspin.
He would be away for four days, and it had been just fifteen hours.
Had they done ‘it’ already? On the plane maybe, standing doggie in the loo. Billie’s football buttocks happy-slapping against Matt’s hips. Begging for it deeper, harder. Not yelping in discomfort with every shove, until he lost his erection. Saskia’s stomach knotted. Then she saw the longboat.
The mad craft – moored in a basin with the hulls of others waiting for repair – was so peppered in portholes it was more a floating conservatory than a house-boat. Its interior stuffed with verdant green, bulging out of open windows and pressed against closed ones, as if trying to escape.
She pointed and clicked, pointed and clicked, seeking the blanked out bliss of creativity to protect her from the torment of her imagination. But the subject wasn’t quite absorbing enough, and her imagination way too cruel.
Perhaps, the minute they arrived in their cheesy, sleazy Vegas strip hotel, Matt threw Billie on the bed, tore off her panties and ate her senseless. She probably yanked her sweet bald pussy lips apart and puffed out a great orgasm, rubbing it all over his face, loving it, no care for hygiene, never getting the giggles until the mood evaporated.
Saskia slumped on a slope of meadow leading down to the waters edge, kicking off her flip-flops and digging her toes in the grass. She tore tufts out with her hands, camera forgotten in her lap.
Or was Billy eating Matt? Right now? Humming in slippery relish. Fluidly milking him. Not scraping his cock raw with her teeth until he couldn’t bear it any longer.
Saskia growled, closed her eyes and tilted her face to the sun. A breeze was small comfort. She pulled her skirt up over her knees and let the air cool her. There was no-one around to witness her indecency.
Maybe they were doing all these things. Maybe they were practicing everything first, so they could film the best one. That’s what she’d do. Saskia would get Billie naked, first. Start slow, kiss her nipples or stroke her pert breasts or something, lick the dip of her spine, bite her bottom. See what she liked, what lathered her up. Then, when she was good and-
God. Saskia was a nutcase asking them to do this.
She buried her cheeks in her knees and watched the plant-stuffed boat, her subject, bob up and down on the water.
No. Saskia had to be brave. Rather address the fact, now, that Matt’s best friend was a pretty little slut with a shameless porn habit. Rather than later, when it was too late. If they “discovered” each other, well, at least she’d made her stand.
Something was wrong with that boat. It was the only one moving. Saskia shaded her eyes and tried to see into its dark portholes.
It was too far away, on the opposite side of the canal, but the foliage against one of the windows seemed to move more than the others.
Then a bare foot popped up, pressed to the glass, holding aside the curtain of leaves. Saskia smiled. Now that was a shot!
She lifted her camera and zoomed in. It was a female foot, with rings around its toes, disconnected from its body by the dimness of the interior.
Gradually, tracing back from ankle to knee, to thigh, Saskia built a picture of the rest of the leg. bonus veren siteler It was flopped aside on a narrow bunk and- God, the woman was… No…
Saskia zoomed again and refocused, looking as deep as she could inside. Busy fingers, a heaving belly and wobbling breasts . Then right in the dimmest distance, a leonine face. A crystalline glint in hooded eyes.
Looking back.
Saskia’s lips parted, a voyeuristic thrill wriggled through her, but she didn’t shift her gaze, feeling as safe behind her lens as a keyhole. The woman didn’t falter either, watching Saskia from the protection of her bushes. The energy of an unexpected delight crackled between them.
Saskia’s hands trembled, her heart thumping at her ribs as if reminding her how improper this was, watching a woman secretly pleasure herself. And she definitely was, her body winding itself against the quick rub of her fingers. Not counting the crushingly embarrassing porn she had watched once with Matt, Saskia had only ever watched herself do this; and even then it had been a hands-in-knickers thing.
“Cum,” she murmured, biting her lip. “Go on, cum.”
Then the woman’s eyes screwed shut and her toes curled. Her hips arched off the bunk. Her hand flapped, two fingers plunged.
Saskia gasped. Her finger twitched. Click. Then before she knew it, she was marching away across the grass.
#
Two glasses of wine later and she finally dared look at her downloaded photos. Even then, she hovered her mouse over the last one, unable to open it, as if to do so was admitting infidelity.
With a sting of guilt she realised she hadn’t thought of Matt and Billie for hours. She wondered if Billie did get to strip after all. If she’d done it already. Fingering herself for Matt’s delight, for her own delight, dribbling wet to the knees. Without being begged too, without giving up after ten minutes with numb bits.
Saskia crossed her legs, and opened the photo…
It was a bit soft. Quite Beautiful for it though, like a Klimt. Framed by the circular porthole, sweet jewelled toes in the foreground, curled. Leg muscles taut and spread thighs caught in the frantic upward push against a blurring hand; two digits sunk to the knuckle between. Beyond that, a tipped chin, mouth caught in a silent cry. Actually, not ‘quite’ beautiful at all. Gorgeous.
Saskia sat back to admire her work. Only when her gaze finally moved away from the gory focal point, did she notice the reflection in the glass of the porthole.
Her own reflection, caught bright in the sunlight. A Warhol-blonde gazelle in a black dress, behind a massive camera. She caught a breath. Oh no. Creamy bare legs, raised and brazenly presenting the gusset of white knickers, dazzling in the sun.
She glugged her wine, as if that might clear her rush of dizziness. Her cheeks prickled hot with what this might mean. Had the woman had been aroused by Saskia? By that unwittingly provocative pose? Had Saskia made another woman cum?
Her heart hammered half out of her chest. A warm tingle swelled around her abdomen, and leaked below. She swung on her swivel chair, left and right, left and right, sliding her finger in and out of her brand new, loose, engagement ring. Then she zoomed in to the picture, filling the screen with the woman’s finger-plundered sex.
Her phone buzzed, and she all but fell off her chair. A text from Matt!
“Babe, you gotta see this. Billie chose the stripper: Barbie Monroe.”
A photo: A tall, slim, nearly naked woman with a platinum Bob and tiny wedding veil. From the back, winking over her shoulder, pulling lace panties down to reveal her porn star ass. A Vegas strip-o-gram version of Saskia.
Billie. You bitch.
Saskia thumbed back: “U 2 dun it yet?”
Saskia moved her laptop cursor around her zoomed-in erotic photo, jiggling at the woman’s bits and causing an odd empathy tickle in her own
Matt replied: “Nope. Asked her tho. She said in morning. U sure bout this, Sasquatch?”
Saskia chucked her phone. They were really going to do it? Of course they were. Saskia had practically said the wedding was off if they didn’t.
Oblivious to Saskia’s pain, the woman spread herself on the screen. A moment of sexual approval stretched out to infinity. At that moment that person was more excited by Saskia than anyone had ever been.
They’d warned her, never expect to impress a model. Especially a much-adored underwear model, like Matt. He only got properly hard in a mirror, or the camera. No-one was surprised when he asked his photographer to marry him.
Fuck Billie. Fuck Matt. She wriggled off her underwear and lifted her skirt to let the light of the picture, of the frozen moment, bathe her secret places.
She curled toes over the edge of the desk, and slid fingers lightly up her thigh.
#
The next day, Saskia woke late and to a squirm of shame at how she’d behaved.
Waiting for the bath to run, she checked her phone. Nothing from Matt. Then she checked bahis her laptop in case they’d emailed a video or something. Maybe they’d done it, got it all out of their system. Maybe there was a sloppy sixty-nine waiting for her: Billie grinding an orgasm out on Matt’s girl-glossed lips, licking cum off his cock with a messy mouth. No last minute withdrawal and tossing him off into a tissue, for her.
Nothing. Just the image she’d minimised before going to bed last night. Christ, she’d cum like a banshee, and more than once. What was the matter with her?
Her dastardly fingers opened it again to a liquid pull in her belly. Fuck. Look at that lovely abandon. Saskia’s fingers fluffed at her bush. Then she gasped, stamped her foot and stormed to the bathroom.
It was only halfway through a soapy scrubbing, when she noticed she wasn’t wearing her ring, which was too big and fell off easily. She shouldn’t really be wearing it. Then with a sinking of inevitability, she reckoned she knew where it was. A place she had left in a panic.
Twenty minutes later, Saskia was standing on the deck of the planted boat with her fist in the air, trying to force it to knock on the little wooden doors.
The ring was nowhere to be seen on the grass bank and she hoped maybe the woman in the boat might have picked it up. A useless idea, and a terrifying prospect, but she couldn’t let a potentially awkward situation get in the way of her most prized possession.
However, there was no innocent explanation for dressing exactly the same as the day before. And only wicked explanations for deciding at the last minute not to bother with underwear; for which the unfamiliar breeze around her hidden clefts was a constant, silent reproach.
Her heart did the knocking for her it seemed, as the door suddenly opened.
“Hi, I’m Aela!” said the woman, “I hoped you’d come back, would you like some tea?” She tugged at a rumpled, shapeless white cotton frock, clearly having just dressed.
“Saskia,” Saskia said, then her head emptied. Aela had a soft vitality to her that put Saskia’s gym body to shame, and something about her just made you want to smile. For a moment Saskia really did believe that she was here for tea.
Aela clawed back a wet mane of tawny hair and blinked brightly, eyes like blooms. Then she snorted and squeezed Saskia’s arm. “Oh don’t be shy, hon. We’re both grownups. I had a diddle looking up your skirt and you got a cheeky shot of me, doing it. Fair’s fair, eh? Come and sit down. Leave your flip-flops there.”
Those lips. Like great fat fruit. Was Aela born, or blossomed out by nature to entice every creature on the planet? Saskia wished she’d brought her camera. She could spend her life photographing this woman.
The flip and swing of Aela’s hips lured Saskia into a surrealist, tropical interior. Bewildering in its massiveness, it was more fairy forest than cabin, lit by dappled sun from the hotchpotch of windows and foliage. An ancient, glowingly waxed wood floor felt silky soft beneath her bare feet. A flowery fragrance made her head spin.
Next thing she knew she was sat on a carved driftwood bench, watching Aela fill two cups.
“Home brew,” she announced, handing Saskia a cup. “Go easy, it’s stronger than it seems.” Aela gulped hers and sucked her top lip. “So. I’d love to see your picture. I’m an artist too, you know.”
Saskia sipped the tea, it tasted minty and made her want to giggle. If there was a reason she had come, she couldn’t remember it.
“Sorry I don’t- Oh! All my work is on the cloud!” She blustered. Then clammed up. Was that really going to be the first thing she said to this woman?
“On the cloud!” Aela slapped her thighs and laughed. Then frowned when Saskia didn’t.
Saskia pulled out her smart phone, and Aela sat beside her. A scent of damp earth rolled off her skin, encouraging Saskia close enough to press their legs together. The heat of their thighs mingling through two thin layers of cotton reminded Saskia of the nakedness beneath her skirt. She pulled up the photograph and Aela peered, holding Saskia’s trembling hand steady.
“Oh my,” she said, “is that…”
Saskia zoomed in. Aela covered her mouth. She swivelled both barrels of blue at her, and Saskia became transparent; the night before bursting out of her glass skin like the plants in this boat. How Saskia had mimicked Aela, thighs splayed to the screen, fingers digging. Aela seemed to see it all. She smiled and nudged Saskia, who fiddled with her phone, switching it off.
Suddenly, Aela hopped to her feet. “I don’t know why I bothered putting this on for you, then.”
In a fluid sweep, she yanked her smock off over her head. Saskia jerked rigid. Aela was naked underneath. Saskia shifted to escape, but the golden sweeps of Aela’s curves were planted right in front of her. The upward tilt of breasts above her, stout legs barring the way below, and the honey tufted dome of her mound planted right in front of her face. Even after a night of staring deneme bonusu at her photo, Saskia didn’t know where to look, now.
Aela tossed the dress. “I love your eyes.” She smirked, and twisted this way and that. “Your eyelashes are fluttering like wicked butterflies.” She put her hands on her hips.
Saskia wanted to curl up. She wanted to slap this woman. She wanted to kiss her. There. In that shockingly florid place. Why couldn’t she even lift her head?
Aela chuckled, and pushed her hips forward, her voice a hushed croak. “Come on, look. It’s why you came isn’t it? To see more of me? Or do you need a camera to hide behind?”
Saskia flicked up her gaze, only to quickly look away as Aela delicately opened herself up with the fingers of both hands.
Aela folded her arms, and peered down her nose. “I think I’ve made a bit of a fool of myself,” she said.
“Sorry,” Saskia’s voice sounded small and pathetic, even to her own ears. “I only came to see if you maybe had my ring, I think I left it on the-“
“Your ring?”
“Engagement ring.” A tear dropped onto her wringing hands, then everything came out. The stag. The torture of the ultimatum. The unfulfilling sex. Her deepest fear that she was doing the wrong thing.
Aela listened without interruption, crouched at Saskia’s feet. When Saskia looked up again, it was into the woman’s softening eyes. Aela passed her tea. Saskia took a gulp and chuckled wetly.
“Sorry,” She said, “I didn’t mean to lead you on. Its not you. I mean you’re very… very… sexy. It’s just… I can’t… I’m not normally a girl girl.”
Aela smiled and squeezed her hand. “I’m not a girl girl either. I like a nice hard cock, sometimes, too. Kind of depends who’s on the other end, in my opinion. The connection. I’m flattered, though, that you’re not normally into girls, yet-“
“Yet I took that picture, quite.” Saskia smirked and she squeezed her hands between her knees. “You converted me.” Her ears warmed. Blushing? Seriously? She was never this… Girly.
Aela grinned. “Then let me show you my art.” she said. “First, more tea.”
Aela didn’t bother getting dressed again. She just stood and padded off, apparently unconcerned that Saskia’s eyes fluttered about her nipples and -when she replenished their cups from the pot – settled on her round cheeks and dipped into the tantalising gap below, to her prominent pink lips.
Aela handed her a cup and sat beside her, necking her tea and nodding at Saskia to do the same. Saskia gulped and – even through the strange brew’s giddy rush – crossed her knees and flicked her foot. This had gone too far. She decided she would be polite about the art, then bugger off home and “diddle” herself stupid.
Twisting to face her, Aela took Saskia’s hand and stroked her fingers with the pad of her thumb, in a slow and deliberate rhythm: Index finger, middle finger, ring finger, little finger.
Saskia’s giggles turned foolish against Aela’s seriousness, and disappeared altogether when the woman held up her free hand and mimicked the touches, but on her own fingers, with her own thumb. Saskia became mesmerised by their dance, copying the repeated, warm, soothing touch.
“When it comes right down to it, art’s simplest purpose is to create resonance between two people,” Aela said. “Whether it’s sculpture or music or writing or photography.” Index finger, middle finger, ring finger, little finger. “Bad art distracts. It blocks the flow of ideas or experience. The best art is transparent. It’s pure experience. A connection.”
Index, middle, ring, ring, ring, ring.
Saskia blinked out of her reverie. Aela stroked her own ring finger along its length and the soft pad of her thumb felt perfectly clear on Saskia’s finger.
Even though Aela had let go of Saskia all together.
She was sat back in the seat, out of reach, simply holding her fingers up to Saskia’s gaze. Saskia shook her hand but the ghost touch lingered. Ring, ring, ring. Aela sniggered. Saskia laughed nervously.
“No,” she said, “That’s not-” her brain stalled. Aela’s thumb danced over her own hand, and Saskia felt every detail of the touch.
“You’re very receptive!” Aela sparkled and lifted her hand to her face. She pressed her thick lips to it. Saskia melted as the firm pillows of Aela’s kiss materialised in her palm.
But it seemed Aela had only just started. Shifting excitedly in the seat – planting a raised shin between them – she lightly offered her palm to her bare breast. Saskia caught her breath as a phantom nipple hardened against her hand.
Saskia wanted to say stop, she wanted to flee. But the feeling of Aela’s body, of touching it in ways she would never dare, smouldered inside her. Her eyes dropped to the raised foot on the seat, hiding Aela’s sex. She wanted more.
Aela swung her knee aside, and exposed the pushed out petals. She let Saskia take it in for a few speeding heartbeats, then her hand slipped down.
Saskia swallowed. Aela’s tender flesh pressed to her palm. A hardened nub resolved under her finger tips. A, familiar illicit tingle nestled between her own, tightly crossed legs as she watched the voluptuous woman play with herself. The sensations transferred to her fingers had them wriggling as if Saskia was doing the playing.
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