*Caveat lector: This chapter is mostly a tease. Its all about private fantasies, conversations about not so private fantasies, and awkward silences. If being teased bothers you, don't bother!*
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"No. Absolutely not. No. We can't give him more ideas," said Polly.
Lisa and Polly were standing in the kitchen. It was afternoon of the next day, a Sunday.
Lisa's boyfriend had left the night before. He had had his fun with Lisa, then with Polly, then with both of them together. He had pushed them into it but it had been pushing against a door that was, if not already open, then certainly not locked and probably not even latched.
Now Polly was trying to cope with what they had done.
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She was trying to cope with waking up in her daughter's bed at 5AM with Lisa's head resting peacefully on her naked thigh. With having to do the walk of shame in her own house, to where she had left her clothes in a pile downstairs, which she had done before being ordered to stand naked and secret in the bedroom doorway. Trying to cope with the memory of watching as Lisa alternated between sucking him and narrating a fantasy of sharing him with her. With the memory of being fucked harder and deeper than she had ever experienced before. Above all with the memory of tongue on skin. Her skin, but not his tongue...
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He hadn't slept over. He hadn't ever slept over.
Polly had kept herself busy all morning and had been about to season a chicken for lunch. She was in a long heavy cotton dress in dark green, which laced up the front.
"But mum, he only asked for a photo of us this time."
Lisa was leaning against a counter facing her. She wore a small white dressing gown she'd grown out of years ago. And nothing underneath it, Polly guessed, given the plentiful bare skin of shoulders, collarbone and right thigh which was exposed up to her hip, where the gown had split open below the knot.
It left little to Polly's imagination.
Most likely Lisa had been busy taking pictures for him and had just thrown the robe on to come out and talk to Polly. To fulfil his latest request.
"This time, you say," Polly said, trying not to look Lisa up and down. Had Polly ever looked like such a perfect combination of innocence and pure sex? Even at that age?
"But if we give in as easily as that it won't only be 'this time'," Polly continued. "Can't you send him one yourself and say I wasn't around?"
"Obviously I have," said Lisa, rolling her eyes. "But he said he wanted *our* legs, like both of us." She stretched a bare leg out horizontal between them, her foot pointed daintily, as if to illustrate.
She let the leg fall slowly back, crossed on top of its pair. The knot had loosened and the robe had split open a little further, leaving here exposed up to her navel.
"He's going to do an oil painting," Lisa continued. "He said we'd be perfect. Its not like he asked us to do anything with each other. Just lie back and take a photo of our legs sort of tangled together. You only have to lie there."
"And think of England? No. God knows what sort of 'oil painting' he'll want to do next time."
"Well *I* think its hot, being painted by him, and him *wanting* to paint us. I mean, he could choose anyone but he wants to do me. And you."
"Yeah... But still no. Hot and right aren't the same."
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But it was becoming increasingly hard to remember that.
Polly had only met him a couple weeks ago. Until then he hadn't come home and she hadn't known who this mystery man was that Lisa had been seeing and was clearly infatuated with.
Now she knew more than enough about him though. She wasn't going to pretend to her daughter she didn't understand the appeal of that kind of relationship with that kind of man.
They were about an hour and a half out of London, in a high-rises council estate in a not-so-up-and-coming town. The people around here came from everywhere but once in they seldom left.
It was a holding pen for the white and black working classes of Kent. Most days the police would drive slowly around the perimeter, but they only ever come in if they wanted to arrest a few local boys again. It wasn't particularly dangerous. They just didn't care. A prospective MP had walked around canvassing votes once; it must have been ten years ago, and neither they nor the opposition had been since. Why bother?
Polly and Lisa were on the sixth floor of the block. They had a rare two floor home but it was still pokey and Polly knew that Lisa desperately wanted out, but didn't even know where to start. Polly didn't know how to help her. There was no father in the picture.
Polly worked at an office. It was in data entry for a packaging firm, but it could have been any office. She had been there for eight years and before that she had been somewhere just like it. Lisa was taking a BTEC but without any idea of what she wanted to make of her self when she was done with it.
Then --- so Lisa eventually told Polly --- one night Lisa was out with friends in a bar in town, pre-drinking for a club, when she bumped into a tall dark handsome stranger. The rest would have been history, if anybody wrote history about people like Polly and Lisa.
Polly wanted more details, because she was a mum, and she needed the juice to know if it set off alarm bells or was so fantastically romantic that she would get to embarress her future grand-kids by endlessly retelling the story.
But all she got from Lisa was that he had been passing through and had stopped for a drink on his own. It had been a stop over between work on a commission down in Sussex and returning to his studio in London. They bumped into each other in the bar, hit it off.
He was a sculptor. He specialised in life sized or over-sized female forms, but also dabbled in oil paintings and various commissions.
The commission in Sussex for example; Polly had found out from him last week that it was a wooden henge formed of nine foot high statues to fertility, femininity, goddesses, the seasons and whatever else the eccentric client wanted to read into it.
Work like that was starting to get noticed where it mattered. He was becoming an underground phenomena with clients amongst the rich and famous. Proximity to that world, through him, was intoxicating.
Oh yes, and he was, as mentioned, tall, dark and strange, and physically dominating just to be around.
Polly understood. She did. Why deny him anything, when he had so much of life to give you, and your life looked so grey in comparison and was going nowhere special? All he asked for in return was submission.
Yes, she understood. That made it harder.
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"So absolutely no leg photos from me." Polly took a deep breath. "And, umm, sweety, while we're on the subject... I've been meaning to... This is awkward, but, well... He likes having more than one woman in his bed. Right? And he tends to get his way, and you like him getting his way. Right?"
Lisa nodded. He'd never hid that, just like he'd never pretended he would be exclusive with her.
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In fact Lisa was pretty sure he had other girlfriends, or at least women on the side, though she'd never asked. Some of his models, surely. Not being sure either way was a bit of a rush to her, it made her want to be the one who pleased him best, without having to admit she knew anything.
She would lie in bed after they'd been together and imagine he was so sated that he'd been starting to neglect those others --- whoever they were --- ever since Lisa had started seeing him a few months ago.
They would be sophisticated married women, reduced to constantly texting him begging and sending nudes he hadn't even asked for and promises of what they would do for him; but half the time he'd be too busy with Lisa and the other half he'd just string them along for his amusement.
She'd imagined how he would give in some times, when one of his side-sluts became especially pathetic; sending him pictures behind her husband's back, literally, perhaps.
He'd go over, not even say anything, fuck the woman hard and fast in her marriage bed, pull out and come on her desperate slutty face even though she begged him to come in her cunt for once, just for the affirmation that she was worth it. She wasn't.
But Lisa was. He came in Lisa's cunt and she loved it, she felt claimed every time he did. She wasn't on the pill any more; she'd come off for him and instead they used the rhythm method. He had wanted it that way.
Afterwards, in her fantasy, the other woman would plead for him to stay the night but he'd say no. Perhaps he'd even leave her handcuffed to the headboard with her phone next to her hand, so she'd have to call a girlfriend to let her out before her man came back.
And so as she watched him leave she would know that he must have another girl to go to. A girl who was younger, prettier, more obedient, who did everything he wanted. A girl of whom he would never tire. Lisa.
Lisa especially enjoyed picturing them; their high flying careers, rich parents with the right accents, perfect London friends with sophisticated tastes, perfect cuckolded husbands that they'd never cheated on before and never would again, expensive engagement rings with beautiful diamonds slick with pre-come from jerking off Lisa's man onto the soft skin of their gorgeous breasts. But they were just high-class extras, extras in his and Lisas' story. For once, this time, the story was about her.
Lisa even had this specific recurring dream where he bet her in a poker game, but instead of losing her, he won some wealthy man's beautiful wife. A woman in her early forties, like Polly.
They would all three go back to a hotel. Sometimes she imagined he would take the wife, his literal trophy, roughly and forcefully as Lisa was made to watch from a chair. Sometimes him and Lisa made love tenderly as the wife was knelt on the floor next to the bed, naked and leashed, and Lisa kept the leash in her hand the whole time. Sometimes Lisa and the wife went down on each other out as he walked around them and inspected them, critically.
Lisa had never been down on a woman. She'd never even seriously thought about doing it... until *him*. And now in her dreams she could smell a woman's skin, hear all her small gasps and groans and feel her hands lightly hold Lisa's hips, tracing little circles with her fingers as Lisa pleasured her and she Lisa; and all the while he stalked around them, like an animal that couldn't decide if he would make them his prey or his mates. Or both. It all seemed so real, and familiar.
Had she had thoughts like that before she'd met him, the crazy fantasies and dreams? Maybe. Maybe it was normal. Or maybe he was moulding her. She liked that better. She wanted him to mould her. It implied possession.
