Author's Note: The original draft of this story appeared in a competition which assigned participants random movie quotes which had to be turned into the first and last lines of a story; hence some readers may already recognize the first and last lines of the following story from elsewhere.
*
"Where does he get those wonderful toys?"
The little boy vroom'ed his lovely red wooden car along the rubberized surface past Alison's feet, while her niece, Abigail, chortled in pursuit with a blue biplane on loaner. They ran a circuit around the climbing frame while Alison watched from a bench beneath a tall willow tree; Mallory, the boy's mother, sat with Alison.
"Oh, I make them for him," said Mallory. She pushed a stray strand of long, black hair back behind her right ear, pinning it down with the dark frame of her glasses.
"Really!?"
Mallory blushed slightly and smiled, "yeah, my father taught me carpentry as a kid, I kicked on with it. Actually, I'm a sculptor, met Bobby's father at an opening. Bobby's father has money, but he can't make toys."
Pretty blue eyes looked at Alison from behind the glasses, Mallory's full lips curling at the corners.
"That's great! I'm a writer," said Alison. "Mostly blogs and stuff, some free press, you know. Trying to write a novel."
Mallory nodded, her smile broadening; her thigh brushed lightly against Alison's. A hot tingle ran down Alison's spine and sparked her pussy.
Alison spoke a little too quickly, "My wife's English actually, Tasha, she's an attorney. We met when she came over here on vacation."
Mallory's thigh moved away, which made Alison slightly hollow, but relieved. They chatted while Bobby and Abigail shrieked. Alison caught herself brushing her blonde hair back. She tried to check herself, but eventually gave up. Mallory's thigh didn't touch again, so there didn't seem to be any harm in it.
Eventually, Mallory announced that Bobby had to leave to be picked up by his father. Seated in his stroller, Bobby wailed about leaving, while Abigail joined in about the loss of the toys.
"So pleased to meet you," said Mallory, after dealing with the miniature drama induced by the announcement of playtime over. "Some folk need a nap."
"Yeah, they sure do, take care," said Alison. She twirled a blonde strand around a finger, feeling happy to be taken, but still desirable.
Mallory suddenly fished a card from out of her pocket, "Here, give me a call if you feel like being a model." Her pink tongue darted between her teeth for just a second. She grinned and waved as she pushed Bobby's stroller out past the railings.
Alison swallowed and her cheeks burned. Had she been that obvious?
She glanced at the card and moved to chuck it, but Abigail pulled at her sleeve, demanding her aunt compensate for the loss of playmate and toys. Alison shook her head and laughed; she stuffed the card into her baggy shoulder bag and forgot about it as she started to play tag.
* * *
Tasha got home late as usual, "Hi, luv! Sorry, prepping for a new client tomorrow. How's Abigail doing then?"
"Great! We went to the bookshop, had some fun at the playground, then I took her home. Bill and Deb say hi, we should come over next weekend."
Alison thought about mentioning Mallory, but dismissed it. It didn't feel quite right. Tasha disappeared into their bedroom to strip out of her business casual and into her comfy sweats. Alison sidled in after her, licking her lips at the sight of her wife's pale skin.
Alison arched her back and pulled on her hard nipples as Tasha's tongue moved between her legs. She shut her eyes and gasped, but she couldn't quite get there. She grasped Tasha's short brown hair and rode her lover's mouth. Tasha sucked on Alison's clit and swirled her tongue. Alison whined. Right on the edge. She couldn't stand it.
She thought about long, black hair and full lips curling in a small smile; beautiful blue eyes.
Came hard.
* * *
Later, Alison listened to Tasha's gentle breathing in the dark, "Sweetheart?"
No response. Guilt ate away at her conscience; Mallory's card lay in her baggy shoulder bag waiting for her to do something with it. Throw it out, obviously.
Alison slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Tasha, and snuck into the kitchen. Her bag hung amidst the clutter of coats on the back of their apartment door. She lifted it down and rummaged around inside, but couldn't find the card. It had to be in there.
Alison took the bag across to the big wooden table in their kitchen. She emptied the bag's contents carefully out onto it.
She still couldn't find it. A cold clammy feeling trickled down her spine. It had to be in her bag. She turned the bag inside out. Nothing.
Alison shook the bag furiously and the card fell from a hole in the lining. She sighed out loud.
She placed the card to one side and replaced the contents of the bag before hanging it back in place on their door; Tasha wouldn't notice one single thing different.
Alison pursed her lips. Why should Tasha need to care? The card had to go.
She walked back over to the table, picked up the card and then opened the cupboard door to the trash under the sink. She glanced at it; it just said "Mallory" and a phone number.
Alison decided to make a decision in the morning.
* * *
"Mmm, great coffee, thanks, Mallory."
Mallory's lips curled, her bewitching blue eyes looking over the top of her coffee mug from behind her dark frames, "My pleasure, Alison."
The late afternoon sun filtered down on them through the high windows of Mallory's studio apartment; they sat at an old circular table in the corner.
Alison could see red brick warehouses and a turn of the river from where she sat facing the windows. Tasha should be coming home in a couple of hours, so Alison had her excuse to leave in a little bit after a perfectly innocent and pleasant chat with a fellow creative. Tingling heat teased her damp pussy. She ignored it.
"Would you like to see some of my work then?" said Mallory.
Mallory gestured to the long black curtains that closed off half the studio space, hanging off rails set in the ceiling.
"Oh, I'd love that," Alison beamed. Butterflies danced in Alison's stomach. Mallory hadn't mentioned the possibility of modeling for her again and disappointment nagged about that. She'd been thinking about it ever since walking through Mallory's door. Maybe even before that. Tasha wouldn't mind her pursuing an artistic collaboration, even if being a sculptor's model might be a little different from her usual forays.
They got up from the table. Mallory drew back the curtains.
Alison's breath sucked in sharp.
"Obviously, I keep the curtains for when Bobby is here," laughed Mallory. "Although when's he's older I expect he'll get the same kick out of my art that his father does. . . . Well, unless he's gay. I only ever do guys for special commissions. Hah."
Alison blinked, shapes and forms and images almost too much to take in.
Figures in metal, stone or wood, some finished, some obviously works in progress or smaller clay models, dotted the space. Naked flesh bent and twisted in abject submission, empty of everything except aching lust. Bodies perverted by desire. Some of the sketches on the walls showed women encased in leather and masks, others nude and bound by elaborate knot work. She saw photographs pinned up in one corner, female faces lost in orgasm, distorted in sharp monochrome. Her eyes darted, not daring to look too long for fear Mallory might think she had some interest.
