Chantal strutted onto the patio, glided down the stone steps, threw her lady-bundle onto the sun lounger, and faced the camera. The sun lit up her burnt sienna hair, accentuating her crème caramel extensions. She raised her arms and clawed at her shocking mane. A stray kiss-curl brushed her lips.
Raising her brows, fluttering her lashes, she let an arm hang around the full curve of her bum, her slim fingers scratching the backs of her greatest assets, her faintly tanned thighs. Chantal was modelling sexy lingerie: a candy apple red bra, a crotch-hugging red thong, sheer black tights fringed with delicate lacy bits, classic rhubarb stilettoes. She purred like a contented cat, ‘What do you think, Dani, good?’
‘Very good, Chantal. Can you just turn to face me? That’s it. Legs slightly apart. Lovely.’
Dani took five consecutive shots of her muse, then nodded, watching avidly as she stripped off her bra and thong.
Beautiful, quite beautiful.
Chantal squatted on her tummy. Dani felt her smooth skin as she reclined on the sun lounger sipping pink gin, closing her eyes, gently caressing her muse’s breasts, the dimples in the small of her back, her pert buttocks. Finding the girl’s intimacy overwhelming. Barely able to contain her excitement. The divine thrill of Chantal’s naked body, rubbing, gently, against hers in the heat of the torrid afternoon.
She wiped the sun-tears from her eyes. The sea’s glare made her cry. Her muse raked her shock of caramel in a thick drape, so that her bulk hung heavily down one side of her blushing face. Fascinating, the way Chantal’s act of facial exposure made her blush in a rash over her cheeks, neck, chest, breasts, tummy, thighs, heightening the delicate fawn in her freckles. Fascinating, how her intimate exposé gave her face colour, her thin neck, the gilded look of a swan.
Dani fantasized, feeling her girl’s tongue probe her mouth, gagging her with an obscene desire. Chantal stopped rubbing herself on her lady’s tummy, stood up, and put on her swimsuit.
The hooped bullring, crudely torn through her left earlobe, gave her the appearance of a gypsy, a sultry private dancer in the closed court of her lady. She bared her teeth, her cheeky gap, gave Dani a fierce snarl, breathed in at her midriff, and let her arms hang freely, flaunting her egg yolk swimsuit, its bursa escort plunging neckline, swivelling her hips. Crying out for her, ‘Chanteuse!’
She heard the camera click.
‘How was that Dani?’ she cooed.
Chantal knew full well that she was picture-perfect, an undiscovered talent about to go viral. Picardie had her fame arranged at a grand internet auction of Chantal Merlin to fashion houses, modelling agencies, journals, magazines, webcams, individual clients around the world. Such was the promise of stardom, the share of the spoils, that she never thought to question Dani’s background, or motives.
Her cot was an insult, the room tiny, but she could live with her minor discomforts in the pursuit of wealth. There was little else for her to do at the beach house but clean, launder, serve food, and shop. Other than please her.
‘Perfect!’ Dani affirmed, ‘Have you prepared our picnic for this afternoon?’
Chantal crossed her arms behind her back and counted her fingers.
Ham, brie, fromage bleu, pâte, anchovies, eggs, baguette, olives, vine tomatoes, grapes. Oh, and champagne! Mustn’t forget the champagne!
‘Yes! Everything is ready.’
‘I think I shall wear a dress today, Dani,’ she added, pronouncing her name darn-e as in a curse or mend in a holed sock, ‘If I may? Please? It would be so lovely to wear my dress.’
Dani’s cheeks sagged, like the cheeks of a face struck with severe Bell’s Palsy,
‘Of course, Cheri, but be careful not to get your hem wet when we go rowing.’
After she had changed out of her swimsuit, Chantal assembled the picnic hamper and loaded it into the boot of the artist’s splendid pea-green, yellow-wheeled, Citroën 2CV. They set off in high spirits, Dani driving carefully round the hairpin bends, taking a narrow, winding track, high up into the vertiginous no-man’s land.
Every so often, they spotted a memorial headstone standing in the straw-dry grass by the roadside; marking the place where unsuspecting tourists inadvertently motored too close to the edge and tumbled down the steep slope. Occasionally, when the road veered to the right, Chantal caught sight of the acres of charcoaled trees decimated by the frequent forest fires. She thought of the flume Dani pointed out to her, burning on the inaccessible mountainside, their eternal burning bursa escort flame.
After an hour, the road widened and wound downhill, through shady olive and lemon groves, to a line of pine trees. Dani pulled over, drove down a dusty track, and parked the 2CV in the shade. Chantal carried the hamper down to a short strip of brown sand, punctuated with dead cones, and spread the blanket. They picnicked under the pines dressed in wide-brim straw hats to keep the sun out of their eyes. The artist didn’t drink.
‘Drinking, rowing and driving don’t mix,’ she opined, eating sparingly: a few vine tomatoes, some olives, a sprig of grapes.
It was left to Chantal to eat the lion’s share. Her hostess showed her the dregs of the champagne.
‘Come on, Cheri. Such a shame to waste it.’
After Chantal had finished quaffing and packing the hamper, they went off to find the boat.
‘I think I may have drunk too much champers,’ she slurred dreamily. ‘It’s so calm and peaceful out here on the lake, don’t you think Dani?’
‘I do! The glare of the sun off the water, the slop of water against our little boat, the stir of my oars in the cool, clear lake. I find it all so soporific. See how clear the water is! Can you see the carp, grazing in the streamer weeds?’
Dani stopped rowing, letting the boat glide to a halt in one of the secluded bays that gave the grand lake its irregular shape. It was impossible to see all of the bays from one vantage point, or, indeed, to be seen. They were alone where no-one could find them. Dani had planned the day, Tuesday, and time: siesta time, to perfection. There were no other boaters. They wouldn’t be disturbed.
Chantal leaned against the side of the boat, peering into the crystal-clear water. She could see right down to the streamer weed, huge fish grazing, heads down. The view reminded her of an aquarium. She blinked her stiffened eyelashes, turning her head away: the transparency made her feel queasy. Her head span.
The water must be at least five metres deep here, she estimated.
‘You must be tired out, after your labours this morning,’ Dani observed, ‘Why don’t you have a cat nap, Cheri? I am happy to stay here and rest awhile, to sit, and dream.’
‘Mm!’ Chantal stretched her arms and sighed. ‘You make the lake sound so romantic. bursa eskort I shall! I shall sleep while you rest on the lake, watching over me.’
She closed her eyes, bowed her head, her chin flopping onto her chest, and fell asleep.
‘Sweet dreams, Chantal,’ whispered Dani, ‘Sweet dreams.’
She couldn’t take her eyes off of her muse, slumped on the seat facing her, dozing in her boat. The sun lit up her burnt sienna hair. She wiped a wisp of gold off of her brow, letting her fingers brush her lips. Chantal smiled, resting her arms on her legs, her slim hands drawing up the hem of her navy floral print dress, revealing her lightly tanned thighs, holding her legs slightly apart.
Dani gasped at the sight of her blueberry-patterned cotton briefs, her well-moulded shape. She reached forward and pushed both her hands firmly up the soft insides of the girl’s thighs, her fingertips, placed, within easy touching distance.
‘What do you think, Dani, good?’ the girl murmured.
‘Very good. Can you come a little closer? That’s it. Legs apart. Lovely.’
She leaned forward and slipped her fingers inside Chantal’s damp briefs, relishing the lush feel of her fine hair. Chantal gasped pleasurably, surprised by the intimacy of her lady’s inspection.
‘Perhaps I should take my dress off for you,’ she purred, ‘Would you like me to take off my dress?’
Dani inhaled deeply and nodded, watching her muse stand unsteadily and strip in front of her.
Beautiful, quite beautiful.
Chantal gave her a fierce snarl, letting her arms hang freely, woozily flaunting her small breasts, swivelling her bare hips to the left. She brushed her lips against her lady’s face, relishing the sensation of her tingle-touch, her lambent tongue licking her out as if she were the residue of a pink ice cream coupe glace. She felt the boat rock. Felt the boat tilt.
‘Dani!’
Then she was floating in the ice-cold water. The crystal-clear water. Staring at the carp. Kicking and screaming. Her burnt sienna hair splayed. Her liquid mane of caramel wrapped around her frozen face.
Beautiful, quite beautiful.
Floating, like a freefall foetus, drifting in her full womb.
Dani relaxed, slitting her eyes, barely able to contain her excitement at the sight of Chantal, drowning in the ice-cold water. In the scalding heat of the afternoon. Her muse, rolling on her front, a Nyad, a nude mermaid without a tail. Turning barrel-shapes like a pared woman-carrot, for her, in the water.
Look at the froth coming out of her pink mouth! See her body, roll, wash and tumble! Chantal!