Part 2 – The up-set
As the cause of GW's outburst – the feckless Albinus – did his best to up his game, and Odette did her better best to help him, so the shift dress lost its button hold down the front and slipped down her arm. Her other breast came into view. I had seen them bared before, now and then, although never deliberately – at least I don't think it was deliberate – so I knew how pleasing they were on the eye. Large enough, and soft enough, and inviting enough to want to fill the hand, yet firm enough to always keep their shape. In the outer, lower quadrant of each a bikini's small triangle of paler cream against the healthy glow of gold that covered the rest of her body. The nipples, neat and round and coloured rose, positioned high atop the pear shaped pull where the bulk of breast became the tantalising lower curve. Her health and youthfulness giving the whole the assertive build of mound. She was fourteen when she needed a bra, fifteen when they filled out her top, sixteen when they couldn't be missed ... and forced me away to clip hedgerows, or cut grass, in the garden's distant reaches.
"Better," growled GW, approvingly.
Lens, with hand-held, edged professionally closer.
I stood in my corner, sweating.
How could any man fail to consider, even if only fleetingly, what it would be like to hold her like that? Feel her like that? Kiss her neck and shoulders like that? Lick her skin, nibble her, bite her. Feel how hot and moist her juices were between her legs. The hot engorged bulk of her breasts. The hard aroused nub of her nipples. Knowing, all the while, that she was willingly permitting it. Knowing that when you fondled and stroked, her response was excitement, arousal at what you were doing. Her excitement fuelled by a growing anticipation that soon you would do more.
To her.
And that she wanted, yearned for, you to do more.
To her.
How should I feel about this ... as a friend?
The hoary crust of forbidden fruit, cracked open, passion rushing free.
"Take off her dress," barked GW.
I watched as she let herself be moved. Allowed the dress to be smoothed over elbows, off wrists, hands, tossed to the carpet, left in a pile. No sooner away than the slender golden length of her took centre stage again. The shapely bulk of breasts, the sylphlike tiny waist, the lithe midriff flowing seamlessly to the womanly curve of her hips; the snowy white strip of her thong, slung low; the long and shapely length of legs, neat ankles, bare footed on the carpet.
How could one not wish to do that, to her? What he was doing, to her? Lusting over the lovely girl like a salivating stag over Bambi. I watched his hand between her legs. Her knees as they came together. Her torso drop as both knees bent and her backbone curled. The anguished groan squeezed out of her, bent over with emotion. The curl and stretch, like an opening bloom, as she corkscrewed around to face him, curl her arms around his neck, and lock her mouth on his.
"I need to see her face," said GW, softly, as if aware they were kissing not for him, any more, but for themselves, some self indulgent passion to explore. The message filtered through ... eventually. He broke their kiss. Reluctantly. Turned her around, her eyes no longer sharp, acute, more dreamy, slightly lost. Opened a hand on her stomach, the other lower, over the front of her thong. His fingertips over her pubis, a neatly trimmed patch of hair apparent within. She leaned against him, trustingly, head against his shoulder, back against his chest.
"Put your hand inside her thong but keep it on, we need it in the shot," said GW, matter-of-factly, as if it were a cooking demonstration.
I watched as he carefully pressed his hand against the skin of her stomach, fingers straight and pointed down. I watched them move. The tips approached the waistband of her thong, mid way between navel and pubis. The pressure transferred, palm to finger tips. The give of skin beneath. The soapy slip of fingers under waistband, progress now inside her thong.
Imagining ... the copse of silky pubic hair. The changing terrain from muscle of tummy to pubis and bone. Over pubis. Under that as fingers curl. Then in at last between her legs. The soft engorgement, pulsing heat, the slick and honeyed thickness of arousal.
She gasped aloud.
Her knees came hard together, legs gave, back arched, buttocks drove backwards into him. The movement of his fingers, moving her. A tiny stroke from him: an anguished curl and gasp from her.
His fingers started worming further in, the fingers moving faster, quicker, hungrier. Her pelvis backed first one way, then the other, then whipped right, then pulsed forward, urgently, into the attack.
"Keep it up, don't let it slip!" GW shouted, sounding concerned.
A problem with the thong, it seemed.
He'd pushed it so far down his hand could now be seen between her legs. Genitalia as well. Glistening with her lavish lubrication.
Verbotten, forbidden, not allowed.
The complicated nature of the moment ... BW's agenda, to produce a film, to present to clients, to promote Odette, to earn a fee ... solid and important, like a venerable bridge. Film Censorship Rules – what they could and could not show – floating overhead like a cloud. While beneath the bridge's gloomy arches, an intimate assignation, between two lusting animals.
Sub plots, if you will.
"Ngaaar!" she groaned, back arching hard.
I closed my eyes.
When Odette was fifteen she decided she had changed to such a degree that perhaps when the two of us were alone, together, around the pool – which we often were, Laura having taken over International Procurement for her company by now – then perhaps she didn't need to address me as 'uncle' any more. I had no problem with that. But she felt she should explain.
"You don't consider me a girl any more, do you?" she asked. I shrugged, surprised, confused, and lost for words. She was wearing a black and white checkerboard bikini, with red trim, and the trim containing not the largest triangles of material I had ever set eyes on. "If you see me as decorative," she went on, "and think of me as a man thinks of a woman," (I said nothing,) "Then perhaps I can simply call you 'Merv', or 'You' (as she sometimes did)." I said fine, then headed for the garden's far reaches.
As I was walking away, wondering where the hedge clippers were, she called after me, with mischief in her tone. "Now you can look at me without feeling guilty!"
I took her at her word, and she noticed that I did.
But it never went further than that.
Now she used 'uncle' only when she wanted something.
Or to tease me.
I opened my eyes.
"Ngaaargh," she keened, back arched, shoulders curled around her ears. His hand was imprisoned between her thighs, that were clamped tight around it. Thighs rock solid, knees seemed weak. Dropping to the floor, taking him with her, spooned around her back as he was like a glove around a baseball. She suddenly broke, and turned, energised, aggressive. Her hand reached for the buckle of his pants, the other cupped what was inside. Belt open, zip down, before it was apparent what was happening.
"No!" GW shouted. "Mainstream. Blow job's out!"
Is that was she was going to do?
"Get to the bed," he barked.
She broke away, reached for Albinus, dragged him, backing towards the bed.
But his hand got entangled in her thong, and his pants came down, he tripped.
Face down on the carpet, hand in her thong, thong around her knees.
"Shit!" GW's angry voice. "Cut! Cut! Cut!"
A lecture followed. The sack of shit bristled. GW pounded the bed. Lens turned down the lights. Odette worked at getting her breath back, and her thong back to where it belonged. I turned to the corner and looked at the wall.
From the sweet adorable kitten I had grown to love, into this ... this what? ... smouldering panther! I wasn't sure how to handle it. In some ways it was a revelation, in others, I wondered how I'd missed it all these years. How could anyone look like she did, and not be hit on by boys – what was I talking about, hit on by pretty near everyone, priests and professors included! Wouldn't that turn her head? Wouldn't that get her thinking? Wouldn't that get her into bed?
At least with some of them.
I turned back into the room. She looked hot and flushed, was breathing heavily, chest and breasts rising and falling rhythmically, practically naked, glistening with beads of sweat, wearing a thong so brief it was more like a garnish to entice than a garment to protect her soft modesty. The effect of her curves, the invitation of her skin, the sensual magnetism that rose from her, like heat, the shape so delightfully sculpted, all so temptingly visible.
How could anyone look that good, that appetising.
And not, by now, have been keenly introduced to raging sex?
"Okay?" queried GW, to Albinus, his lecture now completed.
