Dan & Julia

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

They roamed London like feral lovers, hands brushing, tension crackling. In Hyde Park, under a canopy of oaks, she tugged him behind a thick trunk. "Here," she whispered, sinking to her knees. His pants dropped, and her mouth closed around him, hot and wet, leaves rustling overhead. A dog walker passed yards away; Dan bit his lip, stifling a groan as she sucked harder, swallowing him down just as footsteps faded.

Another day, they wandered Hampstead Heath, the skyline hazy in the distance. She wore a skirt with no panties--his idea--and when they found a secluded dip in the grass, he pushed her against a tree. Her skirt hiked up, his fingers checked her wetness, then he was inside her, fast and deep. She clawed the bark, muffling her cries in his shoulder as he fucked her standing, the risk of hikers spurring them on. He pulled out at the last second, painting her thighs with his release, and she laughed, wiping it off with a leaf.

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Studio Nights

Back at the loft, nights blurred into orgies of art and sex. One evening, he rigged a harness--ropes and pulleys from an art supply shop--and suspended her naked above the mattress, legs spread, facing the windows. He sculpted her in clay below, hands shaping her likeness, pausing to climb up and fuck her mid-air. The ropes creaked, her body swayed, and she came screaming, the sound carrying over the water.

Another night, they invited Lila, a wiry sculptor Dan knew from the residency. She arrived with wine, and soon they were a tangle--Julia on her back, Lila's tongue on her clit, Dan thrusting into Lila from behind. The windows fogged, the Thames a dark mirror to their chaos. Julia pulled Dan close after, sucking him clean while Lila watched, then swapped places, the three of them a sweaty, shameless knot till dawn.

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The Casts and Farewell

By August's end, Dan had a series: five plaster casts of Julia--standing, reclining, mid-orgasm--painted in bold slashes of color. They lined the studio, a testament to their summer. Critics would call it provocative; they'd called it Tuesday.

On her last night, they fucked against the bathroom glass, her palms smearing condensation, his hips slamming her into the pane. The river glittered below, a ferry's lights catching her reflection--wild hair, parted lips. He painted her back with his release, and she turned, kissing him hard, tasting herself on his tongue.

"Back to New York tomorrow," she said, breathless.

"Back to reality," he replied, tracing her jaw.

She left at sunrise, a plaster cast tucked in her suitcase--a piece of her, of them, forever his. The Thames rolled on, indifferent, as he watched her cab disappear.