Chapter 2: London Summer
Julia landed at Heathrow on a sticky July afternoon in 2026, her nurse's scrubs swapped for a thin sundress that clung to her curves. Dan met her at arrivals, his hair longer now, a smudge of plaster on his cheek from the studio. They hugged hard, her breasts pressing into his chest, his hands lingering on her hips. No words about the year apart--just a shared grin, electric with memory.
His studio was a sprawling loft in Bermondsey, a stone's throw from the Thames. One massive room: easels, clay-smeared tables, a mattress on the floor near a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. The bathroom was a glass box in the corner--shower, toilet, sink--all exposed, the river glinting beyond. Boats drifted past, their passengers oblivious to the naked truths unfolding inside.
They didn't make it ten minutes before clothes hit the floor. Julia's dress pooled at her feet, her panties kicked aside; Dan's shirt and jeans joined the mess. She shoved him onto the mattress, straddling him, the windows framing her like a living canvas. He gripped her thighs, thrusting up as she rode him, her moans bouncing off the high ceilings. Across the river, a jogger might've glanced up--neither cared. She came loud, head thrown back, and he followed, spilling into her with a growl.
"Missed this," she panted, collapsing onto his chest.
"Missed you," he replied, smirking.
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Art and Exposure
Dan's latest obsession was body casting. The next morning, he mixed plaster in a chipped bucket, the air thick with chalky dust. Julia stood naked by the windows, sunlight spilling over her skin, as he slathered her torso in Vaseline. "Hold still," he muttered, brushing cold plaster over her breasts, her nipples hardening under his touch. She grinned, teasing him with a wiggle, and he swatted her ass, leaving a white handprint.
The cast hardened, capturing every curve--her ribs, the dip of her navel, the swell of her hips. He peeled it off, revealing her glistening beneath, and couldn't resist: he dropped to his knees, burying his face between her legs. She clutched his hair, gasping as his tongue worked her, the Thames shimmering behind them. A tourist boat honked; she laughed mid-moan, uncaring who saw.
Later, he painted her--literally. He spread a tarp, dipped brushes in crimson and gold, and streaked her body. She lay on the mattress, legs splayed, as he dragged pigment over her thighs, her stomach, circling her clit with the soft bristles until she squirmed. "Fuck me already," she demanded, and he did--brush abandoned, hands pinning her wrists, the paint smearing between them as he pounded into her. The windows stayed wide open, the city their silent audience.
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London Streets