'Song Of Solomon'

by Sandrine Lopez


- - - - - - -

News, good or bad, travels fast but these were head on, a train wreck of colliding ideals.

For Sol, it was something to believe in, made redundant in the recession. For Vix, something giving meaning to their relationship, of a few years. Sol had grown distant, distracted by job seeking, feelings of worthlessness, not even interested in her, emotionally or intimately. She hoped it didn't mean he'd met someone else, in widening social circles of career centres and interviews.

That evening, they both reached their flat together. Vix could see a renewed light in Sol's eyes. Has he guessed, she thought. Or perhaps he's finally got a job!

As they got in, both started, "I've got something to tell... " before stopping and laughing.

"You first." said Vix, glowing with anticipation.

"I don't know how to explain..." Sol started, smiling. The first time Vix had seen him genuinely happy since being jobless "I met these people a while back, and we got talking. They were from church, and seemed so friendly."

Oh, thought Vix, who was a humanist, an atheist.

"I'd never really thought much about God but what they said made sense after all I've been through. I... gave myself to God today." He beamed the smile of someone who had seen the Light. "I'm a born-again Christian."

"Right... " Vix replied slowly, uncertain of how to take it.

"Isn't it wonderful?" Sol looked in her eyes for confirmation. Vix tried to nod, then shake her head, rolling it bewildered.

Sol tried to break the awkwardness, "What's your good news?"

Vix opened her mouth soundlessly, a tear rolled down her cheek.

"I'm... pregnant."


*


They sat at opposite ends of the sofa. Vix tried to make light of Sol's news with a half joke, "I suppose that means a celebratory shag is out of the question?" She felt like she hadn't been touched, let alone held, kissed or fucked in years, instead of weeks.

Sol frowned. Bad move, Vix thought. Shit, another girl is bad enough but how do you compete against God!?

"I thought you'd be happy for me." Sol broke the silence.

"Yes... " Vix replied, meaning no, "You're happy, I can see that." More tears rolled down her cheeks. "Are you happy about... ? " She held her stomach, the weeks old baby-to-be within.

Sol couldn't return the sentiment. "I need to pr... think... about it." The aborted word was pray. For what, Vix thought? Her lost soul? Forgiveness? That they never got involved?

"Fine." Vix said, standing. "I suppose I... we.... should go." The change, including the young life within her, was intended to cut. Back to my parents, she guessed. How the fuck do I explain...

Sol stood and held open his arms, realising he wasn't meshing his new Christian outlook with reality. Reluctantly, Vix fell into them, sobbing.

"I still love you Vix... " she heard him say, "Perhaps more now than ever, but... "

But, Vix thought, I'll always be second fiddle to... Him.

She still had no option, tearing herself away to pack a bag, and face the music of her Mum and Dad.


*

"Don't worry dear, I'm sure he'll get over it." Mum said, as she plonked tea in front of a tear-stained Vix.

"For pity's sake Mum," Vix replied, "It's not an illness, like flu." Sick in the head maybe...

Dad was more pragmatic. The death of a young nephew years back waylaid his faith. Difficult to believe in an all-knowing, all-loving God when a beautiful, lively child had died tragically. Vix had followed in his footsteps, recalling the wail of despair at the news... the only time she had seen him cry.

"You two need to talk." He said, "I mean, it's not like he's done anything bad, is it?"

Bad? Vix recalled listening to a Richard Dawkins lecture, about delusions of God people held. What made them cling to superstition, believing in myth and creation over truth and evolution, against overwhelming evidence. She could only see Sol in that misguided light now. Until otherwise, she couldn't bear telling Mum, let alone Dad, that she was going to be a parent too.

That night, in her old bedroom, she hugged herself, wishing Sol was his old self. That like her small, unborn child he was buried inside her, feeling her deep love for him. As had been habit of late, deprived of his body, she let her hand wonder between her thighs, delighting in the sensations before frigging herself to dark, lonely sleep, wishing of him.


*

It was the weekend before Vix plucked up the courage to return. Sol wasn't there but astonishingly, the flat had been tidied, polished, even hoovered. That was so unlike him. Had they brainwashed him? Drummed in an Eleventh Commandment... thou shall do the housekeeping? A single good thing out of bad.

Being 'home' made her needy... too many happy memories returning. Wanting Sol badly but it was unlikely he'd be up for a shag. Ever. If out for his usual Saturday wander, it'll be hours before he returned. Not even caring to undress she got her vibe out and threw herself on the bed.

On her back she teased its shivering length over her drenched panties before tugging them off and pushing it gently in. Its shaking sensations were no substitute but you make do. Thighs widening, skirt hitched up, she fumbled inside her blouse, tore inside her bra to massage her nip, as the other hand guided the vibe around and in. She hadn't used it in a while, preferring the natural warmth and skin of her fingers, and the batteries were dying, a low throbbing but that was better than its high, bee buzz, setting. She imagined Sol inside her, vibrant, hard, hot, losing herself to fantasy. Her 'God'... passionate, full of fire, creating worlds, a whole universe, of pleasure within...

Her urgency to be hammered gatecrashed any modesty and, grappling the skirt zip to loosen it, ripping open her blouse and tugging the bra free to rub her breasts, she thrust the vibe deep inside her wet cunt, ground it over her clit and in, over and in, over... in... She lost control almost instantly, ripples of raw ecstasy shuddering over the rubbery shaft, cries and squeals torn from her throat. As her orgasm crashed through her, Vix pulled the vibe out, letting its warmed, wet shimmies play on the sensitive skin above her muff... more dirty dreamings of Sol cumming on her, the hot spurts sizzling and arousing. Fuck, that used to be so horny...

Tears of bittersweet relief streaming from her eyes, she tossed her head to one side and saw...

Sol was in the bedroom door, holding a shopping bag, watching with shocked expression. Dizzy from her climax, she struggled to sit, pull her skirt down, her blouse together but by the time she had, all that was left of Sol was the loud slamming of the flat door. Gone.

Shit'n'fuck! Vix swore inwardly. If religion hadn't built the coffin for their relationship already, that had nailed it for sure.


*

Tearful, Vix waited on the sofa all day, and it was dark by the time Sol returned. No lights on, he assumed she had gone, and started when he realised she was there. She stood and pressed her shaking body against his.

"I'm sorry," she cried, "I don't want to lose you. I miss you that much."

Sol held her gently, "I miss you too." And Vix could feel, against her stomach, that he did. "But we need some... self control."

She nodded an understanding she didn't have. Make it work, she thought, do what he wants. For now. Don't throw it all away...

As he wiped away her tears, she asked, "What can I do to make it up to you?"

Sol realised he was almost asking the impossible but she had to have faith in him, his new friends. "Would you... come to church with me? Tomorrow?"

Vix sighed. It meant nothing to her but, yes, for him... she agreed.


*

It wasn't so much unpleasant as just lost on Vix. A community church, evangelical. What they called low religion, less ritual and more social. Lots of hugging and smiles. But there seemed a blind, sheep-like following to the leaders, the elders. Do as you're told. It clashed with her ideas about questioning. Parrot-fashion recitals from a book two millennia past its sell by.

After the lessons, there was fellowship. More mixing and hugging people you didn't know but had common faith in God. Trying to smile alongside Sol, they became a faceless crowd to Vix.

Except one among the milling multitude that suddenly shook her. Oh my god... him!

Nick.

She had a vision... flashback a few weeks.

Andi's party. Sol was working late, bless, so she'd gone alone. Too much drink, uppers and pounding tunes were potent uncaring aphrodisiacs. Vix slammed her body round the lounge dance space until she collided with his... Nick, mate of a friend of Mel's. Gorge, deep blue eyes and a dark devilish goatee. Wasn't long before they were wrapped round each other on the sofa, snogging like there's no tomorrow. Her hand slipped inside his jeans, stroked his massive dick, while his clawed up her dress, inside her knix and pummeled the pounding wet heat of her vaj until suddenly, she came on his fingers with loud urgent pants, smothered by his tongue and drowned out by the music. No-one saw or cared, each lost in their own dances, highs or smoochies...

It was obvious Nick recognised her too. Not knowing where to look...

Shit you're amazing, Nick mouthed to Vix, and half-shouted in her ear, let's fuck! They dragged each other through the loud, writhing party, past couples wrapped in half-dressed ecstasies of their own, floor, stairs, landing. One empty bedroom over the lounge shook from the hellish sound system below, the beats an anthem for their bodies. Vix fumbled with Nick's condom but gave up, lust overwhelming her, just wanting him inside... animal with need. Naked... carnal... savage... Over and over, each fuck mixing with the next. Sun peeking through curtains as the sound system fell silent and they collapsed together, heaving with damp burning exertion and exhilaration...

No words after... just looks. A secret, one-off night of abandon. Forgotten...

Until now.

Vix had got back to the flat by Sunday afternoon. "How was it?" Sol asked. She recalled Nick rocking her world. "Fucking A!" Then she dragged Sol to bed and fucked him too, with every unbound inspiration Nick gave her. "Musta been some hell of a party... " Sol panted as Vix's thighs finally released him. She just nodded, the biggest, silliest, shit-faced grin ever behind her hanging curtain of red hair. That week, Nick was laid off... they hadn't fucked since.

Nick whispered to some other guys, all looking at her. What were they saying? Then she lost them in the crowd.

"What did you think?" Sol asked, beaming, his faith renewed by the service.

Vix was distracted, replying half-heartedly. "Yes, very nice... "

Someone beside pushed paper into her hand. A glimpse of Nick walking quickly away. She couldn't read it with Sol there. It was probably his telephone number. She was left bemused... why would Nick want her when Sol didn't?

At home, while Sol cooked lunch... another good new thing... she opened the crumped note.

It just said, in bold red marker, WHORE!

A terrible accusation but it hinted at the truth.


*

Vix could barely eat. Sol could sense her tension, even if the threatened tears were not obvious enough. He reached over and held her trembling hand, caringly. "What's the matter, love?"

She had thought the church of ignoring the truth so she had to come clean herself. Confess. She showed Sol the note, and told him the whole sorry, sordid story about Nick. No holds barred. If their relationship was over, perhaps this was the best reason for him, not just her, to say so.

If Sol was angry or saddened, he didn't show it openly. But Vix knew him well enough to know it hurt, deeply. Like those statues of Christ with an open heart, or crying tears of blood. There was a long, contemplative silence before Sol rose slowly, and hugged her. Still caring, loving.

"I forgive you." he told her. "Perhaps I neglected you too much before, working long hours, and then..."

Vix sobbed her heart out, tears of thankful joy for him mixing with the sadness of her betrayal.


*

In the week, just as Vix was thinking things might just be alright, she bumped into Nick and some of his mates again. Christians they might be, friends through faith of Sol, but they hissed "Whore!", "Witch!" and "Adulteress!". One picked up a stone and aimed it her, slashing her cheek. Vix bit her lip, held her head high, and ignored them as more pebbles bounced off her back. Sol mattered more to her.

That evening, he saw the cut, the blood on her blouse as he sorting the washing. "Nick?" he asked. Vix's tearful silence confirmed it.

"Come to church with me on Sunday." Sol requested. Vix shook her head. "For me?"

Vix sighed. A vague nod.


*

It was obvious Nick had been spreading the word. Chairs emptied around Sol and Vix, isolating them. Accusing, persecuting glances and stares through the sermons and lessons. When the Leaders and Elders welcomed open prayers from the congregation, Sol stood.

"It's come to my attention that..." he looked around, briefly singling out Nick, "Certain people here have been saying unkind things about Vix." And his hand fell to find hers, resting on her shoulder. "She may not be with us in God, but is this how we welcome people? Make them want to find God, in their own way?"

A lot of eyes followed Sol's gaze to Nick. Surprisingly, he stood defensively.

"Do you know what we... she... did? She forced herself on me" His eyes burned into Vix. " She tempted me."

There was a collective gasp. The church Elders looked at Vix. Their Leader asked, "Is this true?"

Vix nodded but Sol countered, "I say, let they who are without sin cast the first stone. Vix has already confessed her part to me. I say, there was no resistance to any temptation from Nick. Both are equally to blame. Considering who is, and isn't, in God here... which should have been stronger?"

Concerned, the Leader rubbed his chin. "Can all concerned see us afterwards please... "


*

If Vix was expecting the Spanish Inquisition, she was wrong. Most of the church Leaders and Elders were her parents age or younger, and they expressed a parental concern when discovering she was expecting as well.

She repeated her tale, word for word, with Sol nodding that this was he had been told. No embellishment or exaggeration.

Nick tried to blame Vix for everything. Bumping into him deliberately, touching him down there, even suggesting having sex was her call, her demand. "She was like a woman possessed." The Elder countered why he was at such a party in the first place. That just put him in the way of temptation from anything... drink, drugs, let alone anyone.

There was one consideration Nick knew nothing of. Vix looked at him. "I'm pregnant... what if it's yours?"

Nick went white as death, not having an answer. Sol was equally shocked but held Vix's hand tighter.

"Vix," the Elder addressed her, "You made a bad mistake but you confessed, accepted your blame, and are sorry for it. That counts a lot here. The Good Book says, 'hate the sin, not the sinner'. Sol has forgiven you. As that is his wish, we do too." He smiled at her, and Vix returned it. A sign of mutual respect and understanding across the divide of beliefs. Good and bad on both sides.

As for Nick, he had lied, tried to absolve responsibility, and spread evil words. The Elders said they would deal with him. Vix had visions of a rack before Sol told her it meant serving the community as punishment.

Sol looked at Vix, "What you said... could the baby be Nick's?"

She nodded tearfully, "I messed up. You... him... same day. Could be." She hugged him for dear life. "I've been so dishonest."

Sol got down on one knee. "Then perhaps... I should make an honest woman out of you. Vix, will you marry me, after all this? I'd like the baby to be born inside wedlock, even if..."

"Oh, God yes!" Vix squealed. The Elders looked surprised.

"Oops... sorry." She added. More happy smiles of understanding.


*

The rest of the year was happier. Vix and Sol came to an understanding not to discuss religion. She let him have his times... grace at meals, time to pray, as long as he didn't ram it down her throat. She even got a letter of apology from Nick.

A registry office marriage was fasttracked, and Sol's church had a blessing ceremony for them.

As Vix got bigger, the Elders invited her in to pray for the baby, lay hands on the growing swell of her stomach.

The baby, a young girl, was born on Christmas Day. Like Joseph before him, Sol wasn't the actual father witnessing the birth. Another miracle, even if the conception was less than immaculate.

Would Sol have forgiven this and Nick, Vix thought, if he hadn't found God? For once she let Him, if he existed, have that one, and said a small prayer of thanks to existence, however it got there - divine creation or big bang - if nothing else...

*end*


Victoria Blisse's Sunday Snog

- - - - - - - -

Sandrine's notes:

I can't remember what the exact inspiration for this was... I know I was searching through my own experiences, as I tend to, for story ideas. I have to confess I'm the sort of person who likes to make their characters work for their 'rewards'. And good God, did I put poor Vix, the main character, through a literal hell.

I could write for both sides from real experience. I've been an atheist, a born again Christian, an apostate, and went to Anglican, Baptist and Evangelical churches. I didn't want to paint either side as right or wrong, so there is good and bad on both. Vix, the humanist and atheist, makes a mistake. Nick, the Christian, isn't as good as he makes out. Sol tries to do the right things, according to his new beliefs. The Elders too.

All are human. All are fallible.

In accordance with the submission guidelines, this had to be edited down to 2,000 words. The editorial feedback was positive, as I was '...to be applauded for taking on potentially controversial subject matter' but in many ways it tried to do too much for a short story, even in this, the original draft, running to just under 3,000 words.

I hope you enjoy it.

'The Colour Of Your Words, The Sound Of Your Gaze...'

by Sandrine Lopez


-

The view from the stage is always frightening, awe-inspiring, but you grow to live with it. Maybe a hundred expectant faces, full house again, waiting for you to entertain and enchant them.

To rapturous, colourful applause I take my place in the loud spotlight, mike in hand, thank the staring unknowns and begin my song. There's a buzz as their eyes falls on me, like a swarm of lazy bees.

'The colour of your words,
The sound of your gaze,
Whispers become tinctured.
This, my song, conveys...'

One gaze on me has the sound of a pitch-perfect tuning fork, lone note among the swarm. My eyes search among black murmurs and scarlet whispers an unvoiced sound. Dark urgent scratches on paper. Nearby to left.

I swirl a little dance, scanning the audience, and catch him in the periphery of rainbow vision. An artist sketching, his intense study whines up and down as his eyes bounce between the stage, me, and his pad.

Found out, deep blue eyes moan into disappointment. He closes his pad and, at the end of my song, as the cacophony of clapping builds up into mixed spectral encores, my artist ups and heads for the door.

The scrape of his chair, the sound of his footfalls, black with sadness.

One chance. I sing and make up the words, the tune, a cappella, as the musicians glance pingily at each other for a cue that will never come.

'Mr Artist, please don't go,
Your sketches enthrall me so.
Show me your etchings,
And I'll sing for you please.
Quiet drawings, loud paintings,
My days are filled with these...'

The crowd are surprised, follow my own silently pleading stare at his back. He turns, aware the crackling spotlight of over two hundred eyes, as well my own, now hold him as unwitting star of my song.

I don't even know his name. But mine is picked out in red posters all over.

Chantal.

A stage name but I know no other now.

I applaud for him, and let him return, resigned to meeting me, as the audience clap too. But I want a private viewing of his work, and introduce the next act before the manager's angry screaming glare kills me, so I can led my artist to my dressing room and see.

"What's your name?" I ask, as the applause fades to grey, and we dodge the dancers waiting in the wings.

Lucas.

A single deep name, blue as his eyes, tinged with passionate purple.

I bite my lip as he tentatively, shyly, shows me his sketches. Only in grey pencil but they are alive with song, not necessarily mine, capturing what I do best. Even if I alone hear it. Maybe his talent will make others think of the music his art inspires.

He has waited in silence, as I scan the few pages he had time for before I outed him. I flip up the next but his hand slaps angry red over mine.

"Please... don't look at that." Frightened, pink shy urgency.

But I already have.

Fully detailed drawings of two lovers entwined in different positions. They are beautiful, well observed and crafted. Then the likeness of them strikes me with a noise like thunder.

The woman is me. And the man him.

My excitement at being the focus of his art had already swelled and wet my appetite.

I'm flattered and scared at the same time. He is handsome, slightly wild, a dream I can never have. And here he is, right next to me. Tears fall from my eyes not because I'm hurt at the pencil premonition, but because it can never be.

"I'm sorry." Lucas apologises, "You shouldn't have seen that... until... "

He can no longer stop my hands as I flick through his pad. More indecent yet astonishingly vivid depictions of us. My face one of bliss, his of untold need and rapture at his cock, hidden inside me and undrawn, only hinted at in blurs of implied sketchiness.

"I want you, Chantal."

I shake my head because, oh my dear God, I want him too. "I can't."

Lucas closes his pad greenly, naively getting the wrong impression.

"Because," I explain simply, greyly, "You might kill me."


*

His place, later. Not a date but the dropping of delusion.

"I have synaesthesia." His confused stare whines like an anxious puppy.

"It means my senses are mixed. Sounds have colours. Sight has noises. I thought you might have realised from my signature song... "

The Colour Of Your Words, The Sound Of Your Gaze...

"Oh." Lucas replies, his penny not only dropping but rolling around the floor in dizzying, bemused circles. "So you weren't just being lyrical?"

"That's how it is for me." Explanatory azure.

"So why would that kill you?" Puzzled purple.

I sigh a deep yellow sigh. "My synaesthesia is so intense, anything beyond simple experiences could drive me mad. Or my heart just stop beating with shock. Or open up more synaesthesic pathways. Could you handle scents that feel like touches, a field of flowers groping you? The heady bouquet of wine throtting your neck? Tastes that are so strong they deafen or blind you while eating? A sensory overload... It's bad enough now, coping with small audiences, even with therapy to stay focussed at so many distractions. Singing is one discipline for the sound."

"Are you sure?" Queerly coloured question, its meaning multi-hued.

"I'm not a virgin." I sigh, this time sepiaed with history. "I learnt the hard way... "

*

His name was Vic.

I was 17, he 18.

I thought it would be wonderful, his sweet nothings painting vivid, beautiful colours around us, as he held me, made love to me.

And at first it was.

His cooing, caring whispers were subtle hues and shades in our bed, the like of which I'd never heard before. The soft sound of him in me was warm reddy-orange. The gentle slappy-slap pummelling of his stomach on mine peachy.

His gasps were colourful butterflies dancing in air, my moans and sighs rainbows for them to circle.

All is love. All is hue and light. Fluorescents and pastels.

We did it over and over, new young love wrapped in every colour known. I was too inexperienced to know what 'plateaus' were but each time he satisfied and fulfilled me, I needed him more until my whole body trembled audibly. Then I screamed a long kaleidoscopic cry of absolute ecstasy as he filled me with his heat. Warm hues bled like mixing dyes and crackled together like flames.

I felt his eyes on me, concern he had hurt me. It was the most lifting, pleasurable experience ever. Every part of my soul burned with his love. I felt I would die if he ever left my side.

I very nearly did.

The noise started.

His deep meaningful, caring gaze seemed to hum in my ears. It grew louder, more intense. I must have looked in pain.

"What's wrong?" His look one of traffic loud intenseness.

Make the noise stop, please...

"Tell me what's wrong!" The questioning stare roars like a crowd cheering a sport.

Hands clapped over ears. Stop it, please... !

His eyes terrifyingly penetrated mine. A cacophony of angels singing, bells ringing, the whole noisy world in my head...

Sight became noise became colour became sound.

Over and over.


*

"It must have been like going insane." Lucas murmured almost inaudibly, neutrally. Understanding.

"It took me months to just acknowledge being alive." Brown statement. "Years before I could even begin to be among people again. Each synaesthesic state set off the other. Singing helped. I could control notes and tones, not let them control me. But that's why I can't be with anyone. Losing that control could..."

Colourless, unfinished. Another sketchy implication.

Lucas spins round on his feet, his swinging gaze dopplering loud then quiet like a resonant lighthouse. He finally stares at the open pad, its most intimate sketch bared to us both. "Then that drawing is as far as we go, together."

"Unless you get me some earplugs. Blindfold and gag yourself so you don't look at me or speak to me." It's intended as a humourless joke. More browniness.

Lucas may be creative but it's not a kinkiness, even as necessity, he can accept. He wants to see the full blossom of my womanhood under him, on him. More inspiration for his sketches. And if I could, I'd be a willing model. He has inspired me to sing once, and I'd like to again.

But for now we have to part on those terms. He is always welcome to my performances, just don't sketch me again.

Please.


*

Strangely I dream in black and white, like old movies of fragments of my life now and then, distorted in that cracked mirror of the subconscious. The only time sound isn't coloured.

I awake with a start, in total darkness, the weird silence only 2a.m. can bring.
Nothing to see, or see me. No sound to be heard, or coloured.

Revelation is black.


*

Over the phone, Lucas' filtered words have scratchy, child-like scribbly colourings.

Life had dealt me a hand that could have been a gift but had become a gilded cage. I'm working on an escape. Taking back control so I may lose it with him.

A gamble, admittedly.


*

I wear the dress Lucas sketched me in on stage. I feel like a teenager again, the one who lost her virginity and sanity as one.

Only this time I want it to be different. The sanity part at least.

That nervous tingling anticipation, senses dangerously heightened as my thighs tremble, knees knock a unusual shade of green, until the doorbell rings gold.

It's nearly midnight, black and quiet in the deserted cul-de-sac where home is. Lucas is in shadow but his "Hi!" is brilliant red.

The lighting is low throughout. His gaze a muted murmur of indecision. He knows the stakes too.

I explain quickly, simply, whitely, and can only wish you accept. Together in darkness and silence. Our bodies as one, but never seeing or hearing.

A clutched straw. Sanguine in colour and hope.


*

We strip by bedlight and lie beside each other before switching it off.

In the near soundless dark, Lucas could be anyone. We daren't even say each other's name yet. But I set about memorising the unique contours of his body with my fingers and lips, that take the place of sight. His artist's eyes sightlessly, noiselessly, paint passion on me with muted kisses and caresses.

It's been over ten years since I last did this. I've read books and magazines, seen films, and tentatively played with myself in place of having no other. Delicately, carefully making sure I still had control where desperately I needed to lose it to enjoy fully. Frustration redefined.

Ten years of wanting, needing. As crammed into these moments as the noise had been in my head, way back. A decade of control fighting to be lost. I think the musical scales to keep me focussed as Lucas' fingers slip their way inside, so big and long compared to mine, yet gentle.

I want to do this, never having the chance before. Take his cock in my palm, cradle it like a microphone, and sing my silent song. Mime to the unheard music with my tongue and lips. A performance to die for.

When he cums, I give a slight pinky hum of surprise as I savor his taste. Hoping to God my pleasure, as well as his, doesn't trigger another unexpected, unwelcome sense. Fuck, his flavour is amazing. Swallow loudly, an off-white gulp.

Lucas lays me back and I let his body cover mine, my thighs wide and welcoming. Our breathing has become all, memories of butterflies and rainbows now vividly re-enacted. Fluttering blindly in the dark, strobe flashes of faint colour.

I want to say his name and can feel he aches to say mine, only once if not over and over, as his damp recovering hardness strokes against my soft yielding pussy. Finds its way in.

"Lucas!" I gasp. His name glows like orange fire in the night. His lips find mine, smooching me into silence again. I'd like to think he's being passionate and lustful but have doubts it's simply to keep me sanely quiet.

Any movement causes sound, and our bed creaks lightning blue flashes. Liquid splashes as he fucks me swirl aquamarine, like sunlight underwater. The scales in my head grow discordant, undisciplined.

With Lucas spent once already, I'm ahead in this race now. I tear his lips from mine.

Fuck sanity.

"Fuck me, Lucas, fuck me... " Blood red, electric blue, vivid violet.

His terror is tension within. My nails claw his back. Insanity's rainbow.

"Chantel..." My name picked out in horrified hues, exploding like a firework. Then he lets go with every fibre of his body. As he fills me he gags me with his tongue again. This time its my other lips singing against the mike of his cock. Sensations and sounds ripple back and forth. His feedback is awesome.

Encore.


*

Insanity possesses me, but it is the madness of desire and need, pent up over more years than I care to count. I roll Lucas off and straddle him.

By now, our eyes have grown accustomed to the dimness, and while we don't, shouldn't, see each other properly, we are silhouettes in the dark bluey grey, hints of reflected highlights from the moon through the curtains on our glistening skin.

The bed continues its electric spark creaking, as Lucas bumps his hips up into me. The pleasured pain as he grips my thighs, spreading them wider as I grind myself all over him, is a mix of tastes, all sweet. I squeeze on his shaft as I bounce like a young girl on the trampoline of his groin.

Lucas rests one hand inside my thigh, his thumb rubbing on my clit, his other hand cups a shivering breast and caresses a nipple. Drives me wild.

Being crazy has never been better.


*

Finally, best of three, he dogs me. Slams my face with a whooshy, feathery lilac thump into pillow, which I bite to stifle my growing need to cry out.

His noise behind me, slappy, thumpy, grindy, is like purple and pink heartbeats. I'm no artist but draw and colour my own version of Lucas' sketch of us doing this in my mind's eye. Detail with psychic pencil every contour and vein of his cock inside me, which the delicate, sensitive folds of my cunt magnify and map out. Try to capture the wetness and vitality on paper. Watercolour would be better, perhaps.

I'd do it better in song. Let the pillow fall from my teeth...

'Mr Artist, fuck me please,
Grind into me, let me squeeze,
Against you, inside me, more.
Pound me Lucas, be real dirty.
Want you to fuck me, for sure.
Cum now, cum sweet, satisfy me... '

And he does.

Where I expected painful spasms in my head I get delicious ones everywhere else.

His hands, one slapping my bum, the other steadying my shoulder. Sour and sweet.

The shuddering thrusts as Lucas's cock gushes into me flavour my tongue with sparkling wine. As intoxicatingly heady. The sensations as I cum too, vibrant ripples between my thighs and stomach, splash like crystal clear spring water in my mouth. Jumbled clutchings at my waist, as he lets me milk every last drop from him, taste like different coloured jelly beans, one after the other, then mixed together.

Finally, like honey, he sticks to my back. Sweetmeat of his skin on mine.

Touch has become flavour. Acquired tastes.

Perhaps with Lucas, I don't mind.


*

Satisfying himself I am still sane, still his, Lucas cuddles me to sleep. His arms round me, our legs entwined, recall every flavour I've ever enjoyed, each first new satisfying, fulfilling texture on my tongue.

When we wake, still in curtain-pulled semi-darkness, I tell him of my new taste in him. He worries. So do I. But that's life.

I make him promise to teach me how to paint, control colour. If song works with sound, we may cope.


*

My song gets new last verses.

'The bright hue of your cries,
The taste of your touch,
Sweet flavour 'tween my thighs.
Want you, need you, so much.'

'The quiet song of your look,
I once said never, but then,
Under you my body shook.
Lucas, please fuck me again...'

But they are one-off performances, only for you.



*end*



Victoria Blisse's Sunday Snog

'Shape Of Desire'

by Sandrine Lopez




Do wishes, dreams, fantasies, have edges? A shape you can define... ?

Mine is slender. just enough curve to keep guys interested. Not that there's any lack. But I'm loyalty, faithfulness, defined. I love my boyfriend John. It's nearly our first anniversary together.

Then why am I so... bored?

He's not far off tall, handsome, dark. But somehow, somewhen, we got in a rut. The physical side of things, so wonderful at first...

"John, it's a bit late? I've got shitloads of stuff to do tomorrow... "

His hand creeps up my thigh. I want him too, but there have few nights recently where we haven't. Trying to be responsible here...

"Stop it!" I slap his hand away, playfully, as forcefully as my dwindling resistance allows. He doesn't believe me. To be honest, neither do I.

"You know you want to... " He nibbles my ear, pokes his tongue in...

Giggling like a little girl, I playfight him off. He can't keep his hands off me. Not long after, I can't help myself either.

"Tit for tat!" I yelp, dragging his shirt off as he fairly rips my blouse open. "Hey, play nice, I need that later."

He laughs at the word 'tit'... typical! His bare arms show nice tats too... I run my tongue up one, tasting his arty scars. His searches out my exposed nipple, suckles it, then more of me, into submission.

We're a writhing, barely dressed, chuckling twist of entwined limbs, joined bodies. The fun of mock wrestling melts into the joy of shared, heightened pleasures.

We giggle after too, like naughty kids...

Memories, the feel of him still on me. In me...

When did that stop, John? Where did the fun go? We're more schedule than spontaneity now.

Yes, busy work lives... tick. Don't live together yet, own homes to run... check. It's still good but fucking him, and him fucking right back, should be mind blowing. Knocking socks off. Tickles all over. Forgeting who I am! Like it used to.

Where was I? Oh yes... shapes of desire.

I guess our relationship has gone square now. We're two lines, opposite sides, of a box, separated by routine and habit. It happens...

Our anniversary is next weekend. I plan cards, gifts, surprises, as any girlfriend should. And, down the pub after work, chat with mates about them.

"You think John'll like this?" I go through my checklist, after the latest spending spree. A quiet murmur of 'uh huhs' and 'yups'.

They're not even looking.

I follow their stares. As one eight-eyed creature, a quartet of female lust has homed in on the very cute bit of guy ass, tight slacks draped to perfection, hanging from the bar. Very nice, but...

Back to reality. One more round, then home to party plan.

I'm surprised no-one fights me to get the drinks. As luck has it I find a space next to Mr Cute Ass. Intuition tells me four pairs of laser sharp sight are burning holes in his bum.

"Hiiiiiii!" A smooth voice, deep with intent. Sing-song tones. Embrace, snog, and 'sleep with me', rolled into one short word. I sense, rather than hear, the collective gasp behind me. Part of me I thought dormant stirs.

I rattle off my order, about to pay when a dark, chocolate-coloured hand waves a twenty.

"My pleasure, for you girls." I've resisted so far but now have to look him in the eyes, sultry brown, molten cocoa, a gaze that penetrates like...

Pins and needles...

"Thank you." I blush. He tsks and shakes his head. Takes my chin in a strong, gentle palm and kisses me fully. My pursed lips suddenly unlocked by the key of his tongue.

"No, thank you." My body takes moments to catch up with my whirling mind. His taste in my mouth lingering. When my eyes open - shit... when did I close them? - he's gone.

"Your change, miss?" The barman drops coins in my hand, along with a slip of paper. One lapse of consciousness later, I'm sitting at the table again, surrounding by open mouths and wide eyes.

"You absolutely lucky slut!" Laughter all round.

Swig my drink down in one. "Sorry girls, love and leave... "

Standing, I drop the coins in my purse and uncrumple the receipt, only it's not. A name and a number. It can only be Mr Chocolate. I should throw it but instead...

Good evening, this is your wake up call.

*

I am getting to that shape... believe me.

Without even knowing, John and I have dwindled to two points.

A third point makes a triangle.

His name is Clem.

Amidst preparations, my thoughts drift to Mr Made-Of-Chocolate Clem. Chocolate is my weakness. Now the god of Chocolate tempts me even further. Not talking calories or pounds added to my weight but whole fucking kilos. Of him. On me. Fucking.

A single taste, like a drug, expands to addiction. A name and number. Stare at it for whole lunch breaks alone, John-less nights. A need. A fix.

I wake in the John-less bed, the night before our anniversary eve, dark around me closing like a sheet manifestation of Clem, until it presses on my bare hot skin. Then realise my fingers are between my widened thighs, delving, slipping into heated wetness, digging further...

Another embodiment, wishful naked urges, of him.

Cold sweats. Hot flushes.

My lust is wide-eyed awake now. I need to nip its bud that evening after work. Call him to decline, politely.

Only it doesn't quite work out that way.

"Let's meet and talk about it." His deep, mesmerising voice suggests.

I can but obey.

*

When I get to the bar, the same we met in, Clem is chatting away with an all-too-familiar face.

John.

I feel like I've been set up. Entrapped. Then realise it's John's regular too - where we met. Habit made me careless. Coincidence brought them together. Biting my lip, I step forward and say, "Hi."

Both John and Clem turn, thinking I'm addressing them alone. In a single motion, they lean to kiss me...

I should be glad, somehow, but can only wince when they pause, glance at each other and...

Huh?

And...

You?

A moment everyone tries to avoid. Do I fancy Clem? If I'm honest...? Do I still want John? Think so. Rules tend to say, end one relationship before starting another. Get over it. Clear rebound territory. Unless you drop someone for another. Not the first time, I doubt the last. On the other hand, the first law of wing-walking says...

Decisively, John hugs me and kisses with passion. It's like home, welcoming and comfortable. Familiar. Yet that can breed contempt. Has it already?

Then, as if challenged, Clem sweeps me in his arms, plows a burning channel between my lips with his tongue again, one side to other, before letting go. The pins and needles return, vengefully, pricking where I'm most sensitive. Arousal redlines into breathlessness.

I've barely steadied when John takes me, a heart-stopping smooch you only dream about, his hands almost crushing my pelvis into his groin. The largest erection ever awaits, separated only by fabric, decency and time... mainstays of civilisation. My insides do a heated, soaked, backflip at its pressure.

It's probably the crudest of clichés but Clem is now a wild tribesman, claiming his woman. With a low growl, his embrace is untamed, animal, predator on prey. His kiss is ownership, body and soul. What he lacks in size he makes up for in compact hardness, jungle diamond, cutting through my glass relationship. Forget him, his mouth explains wordlessly, I am all you will ever need...

Score at half-time... two-all. Just.

The barman slams his palm on the top. "Oi, you three... if you want to cause a scene, do it outside!"

We've acquired a small audience around the pub. I take John and Clem, one on each arm, and we exit hastily, stage left.

*

My nearby studio flat.

I can sense John wanting to protect me but Clem is laid back. As if he can taste victory in my attraction, a humid panting need, alone. Bring it on, his body language responds to my excitement and John's petulance equally. I angle myself between them.

"Look," I begin, "It's all a big misunderstanding... "

"He is your man, yes?" Clem has an uncanny grasp of the obvious. I nod, shamefaced. He roars with laughter. "He is handsome. I like him."

A pause while I pick my jaw up from the floor. Then John's which is beside it.

"I am new in town. Making friends. I like you both to be my friends, yes?"

As disarming apologies go, that's pretty unbeatable. All's well that's ends well, you're probably thinking. That's not really a triangle, is it?

It gets better. Or worse, depending on your point of view...

Clem embraces us both, group hug all round. He looks at John, kisses me again, deeply, passionately, with a laugh. We all laugh. Then he looks at me, kisses John with the same vigour, and roars with joy. John and I, sort of, don't...

"All friends!" Clem claims.

Excuse me while I check that dictionary definition again... ?

"You do not mind I chat your man up?"

Normally I'd be jealousy personified if another girl so much as glanced at John. Even though I think things have cooled, I understand how he feels. But another guy?

Am I smirking now at the thought Clem was actually hitting on John in the pub as well?

"So... " Searching for polite ways to ask, "...you're bi?"

Clem spreads his palms outwards, "Girls... guys... why discriminate? I love you all."

I am so glad that's sorted.

"But I am better lover. The best. Fact."

If ever a more daring gauntlet had been thrown down, I'd like to hear. I'll admit Clem has the edge. John plays safe - symphony compared to jazz. Once I learned John's tunes, able to sing duets with him, I always knew where the notes were going. Clem improvises, makes it up as he goes. It's all new. That's his appeal.

"I think... " I begin, surprising myself, "I'd like proof of that."

Clem folds his arms, nods knowingly at John. "The lady has tasted, and finds you wanting."

Thanks Clem... wouldn't have put it quite so indelicately. But yeah, with you in spirit...

To my further surprise, John picks up that gauntlet - sorry for mixing metaphors but things are now pretty stirred anyway - and runs with it.

"Perhaps," he tells me, "Clem is right. You're not as good a kisser as he is."

Now I'm jealous.

Triangles were never this complicated in simple geometry...

*

My bed, more specifically my naked body, has become a game board. Black versus white, like chess, dark against light, as far as my guys are concerned. Competitive sex, winner takes...

Hey, did anyone actually decide what the prize was?

Clem and John, bare as myself, one either side, pick up from where they were in the pub. My lips bounce between theirs, mulling on their respective snogs. Clem still the innovator, explorer of every part of my mouth, kissing so hard he almost grinds our teeth together, setting me in exhilarated edge. John there to caress and comfort with his tongue.

Their bodies advance over mine, a creeping barrage of skin, hot flesh pressed, sometimes slipping over, or sticking to, the damp perspiration slowly covering us all. I can hear their hearts in stereo, and when they synchronise, it makes my own pound faster, match the rhythm.

My head cradled in John's arm, and with his free hand, habitual stroking I know so well. Clem breaks formation, kneels up to use both hands on me, in tandem with his mouth, fingers and tongue in deft manoeuvres down from my neck, gently attacking a breast, claiming the nipple on it, finding ribs under skin, falling into my belly button. Then the last push towards my exposed muff, and beyond...

Dark plays to win.

John flips over, his lips and tongue at my toes, quivering over them, alternating suckles and licks, then working upwards. It's an old trick but massaging my legs relaxes me blissfully. Thumbing my calves, a hand strongly pummling each thigh, he gains territory like a pro.

Light... my fire.

To John, I am home ground, experience the advantage. Clem strikes me as always on guard, learning with every step. Each taste of me remains fresh to him. I gain from his child-like elation, permeating with new discovery.

The two players raise the stakes of the game. Touch and tease burns into naked arousal, appetites to be satisfied. I've been hot since John's first kiss, horny after Clem's, now my blood boils as both seek to better the other. I might be the trophy but it's win-win for me either way...

For the first time, their hands meet over my mons, pausing in a finger face-off. Clem slips down, easing my parted thighs wider with a slight flick. John cups my whole pussy in his palm, blocking him as one tip swirls deeper into my softly soaked slit. Suddenly the oppressive proximity, the subtle drowning in two men, means nothing compared to that first tender penetration. The one spot round John's finger is all I am, and it finds voice in a single shuddering gasp. Need in hands searching, finding steadiness by gripping a rigid erection near each hip.

I can sense Clem batting John's hand aside, then... intimate sensitivity counts two, three, all four of his fingers, powerful and long, slicing, rippling inside. John's single finger was bliss, Clem is pleasure almost to pain, as I'm stretched, opened. Just as I think, body and mind on fire, that awe - delight and fear - can go no further, John is there too.

Somehow he worms index finger and thumb alongside, tight against each other, then parts them delicately inside me. Widens them, widens me until I can take no more. He gently grips Clem's fingers and eases them back out, massages his palm slowly over my whole aching cunt, soothing me towards a resolution for round one. The release makes me spasm involuntarily under his welcome caress. As I climax loudly, both John and Clem find a side of my open crying mouth and kiss it.

"So I was better, yes?" Clem sounds less certain now.

The room, their two faces so close to mine, stops spinning through the afterimage fireworks of orgasm. Pale sun of John, dark eclipse of Clem...

"Together... " I gasp, "You were both incredible... together." Not exactly a lie but would familiarity with Clem diminish sex the same way as had with John? Maybe competitiveness makes both keener, stops either from becoming complacent.

I want to know more... want both inside me. Does Clem fuck with the same creativity, that noble savagery, as his kisses? And can John learn from it like he just did?

Can John even bear the thought of Clem fucking me? Not just discretely in an illicit affair, but right here, right now, right in fucking front of him?

As if reading my innermost forbidden thoughts... okay, perhaps the expression on my face as I contemplated that, gave the game away... Clem rolls onto me. Slips right into me, without so much as a by your leave.

"Fuck!" I gasp.

That wasn't a request, Clem.

But he does anyway. I should be resisting, complaining, for John's benefit if not mine, even if curious, craving, for this black bi boy. Surprisingly, John doesn't leap to my defence either. I feel him holding my hand, tightly, reassuringly, then...

As Clem has lowered his lips from mine, down my breast to my nipple again, John kisses me. A repeat of that lovely smooch in the pub.

Have they taken my saying, that together they were incredible, literally?

My soul, our year-long cosiness, goes out to John. He parts my lips as only he can know how. Embraces and cuddles my shoulders. He can still make my heart beat fast.

Down below, Clem's pubes are rougher than John's against my muff. Brillo pad rough, and he scrubs me in ways that would get any oven sparkling. Just don't put a bun in there...

Clem isn't as big as John but what he lacks size-wise he more than makes up for innovatively. Recall my own fingers pretending to be him. I was nowhere near in practice. He seems to rush round inside, child in a sweetshop, hurrying from side to side, up and down, to feel all of what's on offer. Finding points that give me pleasure, twitch and quiver, to those inner responses, he revisits them and makes them his.

Exuberantly, energetically, his.

John's lips wash my neck. "Fuck!" I pant, again. This time, it's pure longing. For either. Both.

John's tongue shags my mouth. His pushes match Clem's rhythm, whose cock is on overdrive now. My hips are arching round him for a multiple. His teeth nibble at my nip.

My arms reach up, one clawing at John's back, the other pulling Clem to me, compulsions for him to be closer than close. Grab his chocolate arse and make sure he's as deep as possible. Thighs wrapping, feet locking, up, over, round, behind.

Give me that sweet creamy chocolate goodness...

And he does. God with a cap 'G', does he!?

Fever breaks my senses. Bursts of glowy perspiration on my body, as one by one, each topples like dominos. Eyes blinded by colour, taste of John in my mouth dulling against the matchless flavour of Clem's cum twanging like taut elastic beneath my belly. All I can feel is skin pressed to mine... I no longer know who is which. The sweet but sharp scent of my guys' sweat dripping on me. And the rushing roar in my eyes, that drowns out our chorus of shouts and sighs, to become the song of angels, accompanied by bells ringing, very loudly.

Enough of the metaphors already, girl!

My twat is opening and closing round Clem so fast, it's almost like a small round of applause. Again, maestro!

Didn't I just say... ? Back to the moment... the sex...

I'm at death's door. I must be dying. Going to heaven. Surely.

Clem has just fucked me the great-grand-daddy of all fucks. If I thought sex had become tame with John, here it is again in all its glory. It's like having new batteries. Oooh... did I just think that out loud? Or being plugged into the mains. I feel my hair is standing on end, as goosebumps prickle all over.

Fuck...

This time, because I can't decide. It would be too crass to ask John and Clem to change places, have the other fuck me as I snog his competition. See who is really best.

Wouldn't it?

"A tie... " I finally get enough breath back to whisper. "You're both... fantastic."

Clem looks disappointed. So does John. To them, I'm copping out, skirting choosing an outright winner.

Gnawing my lip, a big glowy, orgasm-inspired lightbulb of an idea flickers, then shines bright above my very messed hair.

"Why don't... you two choose?" I decide. "After all John, you said Clem was a better snog. Perhaps you should check that for certain, then see if I'm as good under you?"

My eyes dart back and forth, looking for approval. Clem seems up for it, if his wet, dark cock hardening in my palm again is any indicator. I grip John's for a sign. He's not going limp, at least.

"Best of three?" I smirk, and slip deeper in the pillow, guiding my two players' lips together to kiss each other over me. There is no resistance.

"So when you two have finished," I sigh contentedly, aware of their musky perspiration continuing to drip on my face and breasts, scented with potential, "I'll be waiting down here... "

So that's our new triangle, our new-found shape of desire. A three-sided relationship, personified by my mons pubis... the lowest, darkest point is me and what I am. The other corners point to John and Clem. Our square may have lost a side... but it gained an edge.

Maybe it won't last beyond this night. Perhaps it will.

The clock chinks to midnight.

Oh... Happy anniversary, John darling.

I hope.


*end*


Victoria Blisse's Sunday Snog

'Photo Finish'

by Sandrine Lopez



*click*

Morning snapshot of a cityscape, a moment frozen forever in time, behind the shutter of a 35mm SLR.

Katherine had grown to love photography. Proper cameras with film and grain, not the pixel shit of the digital age. There was something more intimate, personal, about negatives, exposing them in a darkroom and seeing the image - your view and cropped framing - developing, nurtured, in the tray. It was a creative process, and she was a woman with vision.

*click*

People this time, crowds of faces milling about in rush hour, their likenesses now trapped on acetate and silver halide, like insects in amber . She wondered if some historian or archeologist, thousands of years in the future, would see these images and ponder on their significance. A preservation of now, for some time hereafter.

*click*

One face stood out. A guy had spotted her, perhaps a flash of the lens caught his eye? Was he wondering if she's focussed on him? Picked him from the crowd. He pointed at himself. Me?

*click*

It was now. He posed meaningfully. Katherine smiled.

*click*click*click*

The motor whined. End of film. One disadvantage against digital, the handicap of being limited to 24 or 36 shots, wasting time changing cartridges. As Katherine wound back the film, released it and fed a new cartridge in, the guy was nearly upon her.

Katherine pointed the lens up at him as he shadowed over her, sat on the wall beside her camera case. She focussed and got a close-up of his grey eyes, dirty blond hair and enchanting smile. One for the personal folio, she thought.

"Am I that interesting?" He asked, "To be picked out of... so many."

"Luck of the draw." Katherine replied, "The right time, the right place..."

"The right person." He added. Katherine smiled again, liking his candour.

She extended a slender hand, "Katherine Sade."

He took it, raised it to his lips like a gentleman, and kissed her fingers, "Christopher Parfitt". With a returned smile and slight mock bow, he added, "Model extraordinaire, at your service."

Katherine may only have been a talented amateur but she knew the market. He wasn't young enough, or beautifully sculpted in the trade sense, to be a model but that didn't stop him from being exceptionally and instantly attractive to her, in looks and personality. Katherine was aware she had snatched him, visually and socially, out of his journey. While not wanting to, she found herself saying with a blush, "I'm sorry. I must have stopped you from wherever you were going."

Christopher spread his arms, "I'm a free agent. Well, today anyway."

A snapshot of here and now. A moment frozen in time.

"I guess I am too." Katherine replied.

Suddenly, Christopher had the SLR out of her hands. Before she could protest, the camera was being turned on her. Katherine hated having her photo taken, which was why she preferred being behind the lens, not in front. And especially now, no make-up and just in a frumpy, comfortable jumper and long denim skirt. Fuck, I haven't even washed my hair...

*click*click*

Katherine held up a hand to stop more being taken but Christopher was already offering it back to her.

"For posterity," he told her, "and, if I may be so bold, for me to have a print sometime?"

Now Katherine was really blushing. Her heart pounded in her chest.

"And in return for so gracious a gift," Christopher added, "Might I buy you a coffee or something?"

She had no choice, and laughed coyly at so obvious but welcome a proposition.

*

Starbucks was too crowded so even though it was throwing caution to the wind, Katherine took him back to her place.
Am I usually this bold? She asked herself. No, but this may be a one and only opportunity...

Over coffee, she probed a bit. Was Christopher married? No. Girlfriend? Between relationships. Tactfully put. Katherine felt a twinge of possibility, beyond this single day. For now she was more concerned about getting some portrait shots, in her spare bedroom-come-studio. Christopher may not be a model but he had looks enough to spare and with the right lighting and angles...

She couldn't help shutting one eye and forming a mental crop round his head and shoulders. In return, Christopher winked back.

Stop thinking like a photographer and act like a woman, you stupid cow! She chided herself.

"Sorry," Katherine blushed, realising what she had provoked, "Force of habit."

"Winking at men you just picked up off the street?" Christopher was teasing her.

"Framing." She explained, "I was hoping to... "

"Yes?"

"Take some more photos?" Katherine grimaced inwardly. That sounded almost cold and impersonal.

"Sure," Christopher smiled. "Why not?"

*

Christopher, model or no, was a photographer's dream. It would be too easy to call him a poser. He knew instinctively when to freeze, allowing Katherine the luxury of just snapping away, not even having to say 'hold it' or 'smile'. He did these as naturally as breathing. And what a heart melting smile too.

Katherine was in a creative heaven, the adrenalin flowing and heart pounding as Christopher went from simple lit portraits, to taking off his tie and loosening his shirt for a more casual look, before actually stripping to the waist! Katherine giggled shyly at being in a room with a half-dressed guy she barely knew, taking photos. It verged on the decadent, the immoral. She had to stop, think, and made more coffee as she let her whirling, buzzing senses try and find the ground once more.

Christopher didn't even bother putting his shirt back on, and Katherine felt she should avert her lingering gaze as she sipped from her mug.

"So, how did I do?" He asked, sensing her awkwardness.

Katherine smiled with burning cheeks, "Wonderfully."

"I said I was extraordinaire, didn't I?" He put down his mug and held her arms, guiding her to the stool in front of the spots. Katherine winced, please God no...

But she didn't move from where Christopher had perched her. A bird in a gilded cage of light.

As he moved behind the camera on its tripod, he winked. "Framing"

Katherine had to grin at the touché.

*click*

"Perfect." Now Christopher raised a hand and made a fluttering movement with it. "Watch the birdie!"

Katherine laughed.

*click*click*

Christopher sent up the whole male photographer/female model scenario for her. Doing what Katherine thought she would have to do with him but hadn't needed to. He made her smile and laugh, told her to make luurve to the lens - *click*click*click*click* "Ooooh yeah baby!" - and instinctively got her to relax where being in front of the camera usually freaked her.

And when that cartridge finished, Christopher surprised Katherine further by expertly rewinding it, flipping it out and loading a new one as he'd done it all his life too. Barely moments lost before he was getting her to pose, no... just be... naturally, unselfconsciously, again.

"You've done this before, haven't you?" Katherine had to ask.

An enigmatic smile. "Perhaps."

Katherine gave a half exasperated, quirky pout of the lips.

*click*

"Beautiful."

"I am so not." A frown.

*click*click*

"Beg to differ."

"If I had a chance to scrub up, maybe."

*click*

"Fine as you are." Christopher stuck his tongue out and crossed his eyes.

Katherine laughed so much, tears rolled down her reddening cheeks.

*click*click*click*click*

"Okay, now take your jumper off." Nonchalantly requested, as if the most natural thing in the world.

Katherine swallowed. "What!?"

Christopher stood up, gestured towards his chest. "Hey, I'm topless. The least you could do is return the favour."

"You've got to be fucking kidding!" Katherine was half-horrified but half-tempted, because he had been making her feel very good about herself. "I'm so self conscious."

Christopher exaggerated closing one eye, looked at her through a box made with his fingers, mockery of photographers framing, and said in a cliched French accent, "Nat evern eef ah zay 'make ze sweeet luurve to ze lens' non?"

More silly giggling. It was so stupidly awful yet enticing Katherine gripped the bottom of her jumper and slowly pulled it up over her head. She was half way when she heard another click.

In her newly discovered bravado, Katherine had forgotten there was nothing on underneath. She froze.

"No-one will know." She heard Christopher say, "Just us. Just this once. This single day."

Katherine's head popped out from the stretched neck of the jumper, her chestnut hair every-which-way.

*click*

So was that the pay-off? The price for all this? That after he would be gone forever? His way of saying goodbye already. Katherine's wasn't sure she wanted that. Her smile melted off her face.

Christopher saw it instantly. "Did I say something wrong?"

Fuck, Katherine thought, I barely know this guy, who's a dream in front and behind the lens, knows how to make me love myself, and I'm already committing before the sun sets on us.

Christopher released the shutter.

*click*

"I'll name that one 'melancholy'..." he told her.

A tear rolled down Katherine's cheek, but not one of laughter, or joy. Christopher adjusted the lens, zoomed in on her face.

*click*

"And that's 'sadness'... " He said, "Going the whole emo range here. What an actress."

Katherine glared at him, "I'm not acting!"

Suddenly, in one swift move, Christopher was in front of her, holding her in his bare arms, naked chest against exposed heaving breasts, hot skin on skin. This close, Katherine took in his aftershave, mingled with his own natural musk, a heady cocktail for her to become intoxicated on.

Make love to the lens, he had told her, when perhaps all along he had been suggesting, make love to me.

And terrifyingly, she wanted to. This perfect stranger, captured in her photos, her dreams, and now perhaps - for a single day or night only - her bed. Better to have loved and lost, than regret always?

It was like one of those cliched romantic scenes, where a man holds a woman in his arms and there's moments of indecision... do they or don't they? Kiss or bed? Katherine's head whirled again. So decadent...

Their lips met.

*click*

Christopher still had the end of the remote cable release in his hand. He had captured that moment forever too.

"What do you want to call that one?" he asked.

The touch of his lips on hers meant more than her heart was pounding. Deep in her gut Katherine felt burning needs, deep desires. Her thighs trembled.

"Possibility..." she murmured. And brought his face to hers, snogged him meaningfully.

*click*click*

Something was clicking alright, and it wasn't just the camera.

The film had ended.

"Let's see what develops." Christopher suggested, and pulled himself slowly away. A gentleman still.

Flushed with torn indecision and bemusement Katherine pulled her jumper back on and, as she tugged the wool over her breasts, so the old self-consciousness covered the new bolder, daring version of herself.

*

Colour photo printing had to be done in almost total darkness, so sensitive was the film and paper. Small phosphorescent strips marked out corners and equipment for when the main light was off.

Katherine developed the films and made a contact sheet. There, next to her photos of Christopher, were his ones of her. Smiling, laughing, thoughtful, crying... the ones of them kissing, first tentatively, then with her passionate craving. For someone whose experience was confessed to be 'perhaps', he had framed their bodies perfectly, caught the moment.

Even if she and Christopher didn't go beyond this day, the preserving of that instant took her breath away. The potential was still there, not lost but on hold, like the camera shutter half-pressed, waiting to be released.

There was a knock on the darkroom door. "Anyone in?" She heard Christopher ask. "Coffee, and guy, going cold out here."

Katherine wasn't sure whether she should let Christopher see those ones, just yet, but she pinned up the contact sheets of him to let them dry, and opened the door. The others, as yet unfixed, she slipped in the bin.

Christopher, thankfully back in his shirt, looked at the small images of himself. "Hey, I look pretty good. Even unscrubbed." He looked round. "None of you then?"

"They... uh..." Katherine bit her lip, lied badly, "Didn't come out too well."

Christopher spied the crumpled sheets in the bin and picked them out. Shame-faced, Katherine didn't stop him or meet his gaze as he looked them over, slowly solarizing under the light.

"You don't like my work?" he asked.

"It's not that... " she began, knowing full well Christopher could sense she didn't just like the photos but loved them. Were they the beginning of something, that shared breath, or was it an ending? As far as it should, or could, go? "Is it just... some kind of work to you?"

Christopher shook his head. "I used to be like you... a talented hobbyist. Then other things got in the way... life, work, career. You brought some of that fun back." The contact portraits of him were darkening with overexposure, but the few of them embraced held out. A sign possibly, picked out in light and shadow on paper.

"A day not thinking about where the money is coming from. Hours of just me... " He continued vaguely, not in particular to either of them, "And, suddenly, you as well."

Christopher hadn't needed to include her in his confession but he had. That moved her.

"Fancy making love to the lens again, Katherine?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No cameras this time. But... "

The rest didn't need saying.

*

It was now mid afternoon, and the brightness of the sun backlit the closed curtains of Katherine's bedroom. A small chink of amber light streamed like a spotlight through the uneven gap where they failed to meet, painting golden highlights over Christopher's naked body on the bed.

No cameras, Katherine had said, but she ached as much to immortalise him to a photograph, a reclined god-like pose on her sheets, as she did to have him beside her, on her, inside her...

Stop thinking photographer and be a fucking woman for once, you silly bitch! Just... this... once...

But she was still the same self-conscious self as Christopher knelt up, peeled off the old woolen jumper to free her breasts again, and undid her skirt. It fell to the floor and she stood there, just in panties, covering her exposed body with her hands in a vague semblance of the Birth of Venus.

Christopher stuck his tongue out and crossed his eyes again. It hadn't failed to make her laugh before, and it didn't this time. It broke the stupid, solemn seriousness of the moment, made it fun again. Forget the work, the studio, the camera... just be. Just once.

*click*

That wasn't the camera, it was their chemistry, like the dev in the darkroom, bringing the potential of exposure into vivid visual reality. Something that could be seen and felt.

Christopher leant down and brought his lips to Katherine's navel, and planted soft kisses down the pale skin of her stomach to the thin elastic top of her panties. Took it in his teeth and stretched it out with a mock growl. Katherine giggled, as he then rolled on his back with the fabric still in his mouth, and tugged them down her thighs. The pull unbalanced Katherine, and she fell with a whooop on the bed beside him, her head perilously close to his cock, which was hardening and extending, like a living zoom lens.

Make love to the lens...

Christopher scooped her legs up, and eased her undies off, so they lay panting, naked, facing each other's sex. Another moment of indecision.

"Ladies first?" Christopher offered, though it wasn't a gentlemanly suggestion. It was decadent but Katherine wanted it anyway. She closed one eye, and mentally framed his cock, now at its fullest size, as hard as it could be. Then she leaned forward, kissed the tip, took a deep breath and slowly drew him between her lips.

In return, she felt Christopher part her thighs, continued kissing where he had left off, until he found the soft fluff of her muff. And what was beyond, hidden... camera obscura, her darkest room. The heat of his tongue was like that chink of sun, soft comforting warmth. She suppressed a giggle, as much of one possible with Christopher's cock in her mouth, at the memory of his tongue waggling to make her laugh, now buried deep inside her cunt. Both thoughts relaxed Katherine. Made her open like the iris in the lens, his light flooding through and illuminating her.

Aperture f/1.8... as open as possible. Setting for low light levels... longer exposure...

They changed positions and, like his studio poses, Christopher instinctively seemed to know when to pause for Katherine, let her capture that moment in her mental camera. They may not be committed to film but these snapshots would live on in the album of her mind. She wondered how much Christopher was committing, for afterwards.

Christopher lay Katherine back, half sat up against her pillows and, with practiced precision, slowly entered her. A pause again, for her to take in the view of him.

A fluttering of eyelids before her gaze met his, fixed on each other. Then their two bodies were moving as one, as equal but complementary opposites, like light and dark, brightness and shadow.

The sun had set by the time their opposites cancelled each other out, exhausted but satisfied bare bodies lying together, entwined in the grey of twilight.

*

Katherine woke alone in near darkness. The curtains were open but it was night outside, the silver orb of the moon now her spotlight.

Christopher had gone. There was no sound or light elsewhere in her flat to suggest he remained. All she had were memories and a cosy, glowing ache inside.

Katherine flicked the bedside lamp on, and was startled to see a large photo print taped to the wall beside her. It was a montage... soft vignettes of her faces smiling, laughing, frowning and sad in each corner, framing the central image of them kissing. As a colour multiple exposure onto paper, it was flawless, like art. Christopher must have spent hours on it, or he was even better at this than he gave away.

It also seemed to mean goodbye.

Katherine pulled it from the wall but as she went to toss it to one side, she saw some writing on the back.

Dear K, I didn't want to disturb you but I had to leave. You looked so blissful it seemed a crime to wake you. Please send me some prints and call me. Love, C.

- with an address and telephone number.

Well at least it wasn't over. He could have just made his own prints and gone. The next move was hers to make, should she choose to.

The room's night air was cool, and she shivered, still naked under warm sheets, even if glowing from their faded heat. Katherine clambered out to find her gown, and flicked the main light on. And started again from the two large photo prints stuck to the closed bedroom door.

One was of Christopher, sitting in all his naked glory on the studio stool. He must have used the camera timer, and it brought back happy remembrances of their fun photographing each other. Not a god-like pose, as he had seemed earlier on the bed, just a man. But what a man, though.

The other was of her, lying naked and asleep on her bed. As she hadn't been disturbed by a flash it must have been a time exposure, using natural light only from the sunset. Christopher had been right... her expression, in soft focus, was one of an angel who had found inner peace and contentment. No wonder she had slept so soundly for hours.

Katherine studied the photo with her more critical, photographer eye. Christopher had got her good side. Not just physically - she didn't really think she had one but he had made sure her nudity was tasteful and not voyeuristic - but emotionally. That knack of making her relax before the camera, his lens, the one she had made lurve to. The calm after the physical and sensual storm.

Let's see what develops... Christopher had said.

The photos were a preservation of then, but perhaps an echo of what might be as well, yet to be shared.

*click*


- - - - - - - -

Sandrine's notes:

This was my second submission for UStar's story competition. I drew on my long-dormant experience in photography (I'd studied some at college, more than 20 years ago) and used that as a theme, while holding back on the two main ideas I was going to pitch for the novels, had I been accepted.

Longer than most submissions at the time, which limited me to under 2,000 words, this one ran to 3,500, and allowed me to explore the characters a little more in this (no pun intended) vignette of a first meeting and start of a relationship.


Victoria Blisse's Sunday Snog

'Visions Of The Past'

by Sandrine Lopez



They tore down part of my life. A whole chunk of my history.

25 isn't that old. It's OAPs, grannies, grumpy old gits, who moan about what no longer exists. Forests replaced by towns and cities. Fields lost to buildings, motorways.

I never thought these would also be destroyed like countryside, stripped away.


*

Driving to my beautician, I never used to notice my school. Always part of the landscape.

Then someone killed it. Like the twisted guts of classrooms I once sat in, now spilled open in architectural gore, my stomach turned. One whole exterior wall savaged away, a gaping mortal wound of demolition.

I felt violated, in shock. Town planning murder under a sunny blue sky. Sky I could now see clean through it.

I chat with Sanjula but being newer to town, the school means nothing. Watch her strip off my leg fuzz, wondering what greenery was exfoliated, before it was built. She uses talc to ease the pain as hairs are torn away. The laceration in my life lacks that buffer.

I drive by the school again. There is no samaritan, no doctor, to help.

Its time is past. Like dinosaurs, neanderthals, the dodo. Strange new extinction. And an attempt at preservation.


*

My new digicam seems unlimited after the 35mm SLR Dad once gave me. Over 700 photos compared to 36 max - no competition. New replaces old. I suddenly feel guilty. We all do it. Life uses and discards.

I stand by the dead school. All the children have long since bled out of it. The nervous system of teachers and admin transplanted elsewhere. I take pics of its rib-cage girders, the bones of its columns, the sightless stare of what was reception.

I want to be closer before this is lost forever. A gap in the low-voltage fencing I could squeeze through. A lazy summer Saturday mid-morning. I shouldn't be seen. Ignore the danger signs forbidding entry. Get tingling shocks from the wires.

Scrambling, crunching, over scattered bricks I step right inside, hanging reinforced concrete silhouetted against the sun. It's scary, stomach-churning, to stand where I once learned, now a hollow stiff. I remember the sounds, calling of register... Ramona Rodriguez? Here, sir... the smells... girls' perfumes and boys' sweat... her friends, peroxide hair and shortened hems because guys like leggy blondes... The school lives again briefly.

Silence echoes in the emptiness. Except for a noise, the crunch of boots on rubble.

"You really shouldn't be here, miss." A man's voice. I turn.

There's something familiar... it's been years and he's filled out. No longer the skinny teen but a well-built, better defined, man now.

"Moanie?" he uses my old nick.

"Natter?" An I-D clipped to his navy sweatered chest gives his proper name and job - Nathaniel Wallis, Security.

It would be him. Ex-school boyfriend. Lover. Not just any but the first. The one who demolished my virginity.

There's that awkwardness you have with exs, guys who haven't only seen you naked but been inside you, beyond intimate. A tingle of frisson deep down, a candle still burning. A trickle on my thigh. Perhaps summer perspiration, or maybe an echo of memories.

Grip my digicam uneasily, as snapshots of starter sex surface from my subconscious. Frighteningly naive fumblings, that inelegant playground between sex education and supposed experience. Boys boast and girls gossip.

You'd either done it, or hadn't.


*

Snapshots: Spring '03

I've been study-buddied with Nathaniel Wallis to help my sciences. He's weak on English. What a geek...

First study period. He doesn't say a lot. If you can't think the words, how can you write them? But he's good on science. I may just pass...

Been twirling my hair when studying. Noticed how grey Nat's eyes are. He's not bad for a boy actually...


*

"I... I..." Caught like a naughty schoolgirl. "The school'll be gone soon.... I wanted to make sure..."

"Yes." Nat doesn't say much. Still has deep grey eyes. "I'll escort you out, Moanie. But won't report the trespass."

"Thanks." I smile.

"Will you..." He's awkward, "Miss this place?"

A shrug. "Some of it." We pass the remains of the main hall.


*

Snapshots: Summer '03

Saw Nat as we queued for exams by hall. I showed him crossed fingers, he gave me a big thumbs up. We did good I think...

Nat asked me out. Well, go to seaside for the day. We held hands & kissed. Think he's my <3 boyf now...

I call him Natter, because he doesn't. He dubs me Moanie, because I am.

I PASSED!!! :-D Collecting results with Natter and gave him big snog. He failed English. Feel like I let him down. 'Words don't matter.' he said. That actually says a whole lot


*

He leads me out a different way. I'm not sure it's deliberate but past the bike sheds. He looks at them, me, then away.


*

Snapshots: Summer '03

End of year results school party with Nat. Both 18 and adults now. Got very pissed & giggly. As I wobbled round dance floor he steadied me & whispered 'Let's do it now... ' Took me outside to bike sheds under summer moon. Hot dizziness for Nat. Or maybe it's the alcopops.

Always thought first time would be romantic & lovey-dovey. In bed with flowers. Think Nat's done this before, he knew what to do. I thought I did but...

I passed biology because of Natter. He musta paid more atten to sex ed. I just went 'eewww'. Gross! More gross than that frog we dissected. Thought I was gonna be sick...

He does know words. Tender ones to ease my pain because it hurts at first. 'Do we have to... ?' I asked, as he lifted me up on bike railings, pulled my panties down, and eased my legs apart. He snogged me meaningfully. That's a yes then?

It's weird having a guy inside you. Feelings, twitches, movements, which aren't yours but gradually are. When Nat came it was like he made part of himself into me. Still wondering if I came or not. Girlfriends say you know when you do because it's like nothing else ever. So very intense even if I didn't.

Mum & Dad rarely swore so I never did but fuck! Ohmygod... fuck! Can see why people say it now. It's the most extremes word for the most profound feelings. Like being electrified. Every little hair on my skin being pulled. Hugging, kissing, tightly as we grind on each other. Sneezing inside... an irritating itch then suddenly, satisfyingly, letting go. Sweet soreness after.

I think I'm sure I did...


*

Nat opens the security gate for me. "Still live just over the road. That's how I saw you. Handy for this job, 'til school's gone..."

I frown at the reminder.

"Fancy a cuppa?" he asks.


*

Snapshots: Autumn '03

Natters licked me and I went down on him. Words don't matter when you use tongues like that.

Mum found my diary. My private thoughts about Natters trespassed. She hugged me & cried. I cried too. I'm not a little girl any more.

Dad is angry. Grounded me for a month. Confiscated my mobile, & keys except when going to work.

I'm not a fucking little girl! Mum & Dad shocked. I'm a fucking woman! They know. Words matter. Two months.

I try & see Nat whenever. Call him from work. Miss Rodriguez, the phone is not for personal use! Verbal warning. Words matter.

Snatched 1 til 2pm shags with Nat. Packed lunches at first, then shorter infrequent snacking. Just as I was getting good at it.

Theory of sex education. Practical application. Those textbook words now matter, make sense. It all fits. Grade B+. Loving my wetness. Squeezing on Nat's dick when he's inside. Liking his weird oozy taste.

Grounding ends December. We'll be together for Xmas.


*

I peer through the lounge window of Nat's place while he makes tea. His parents are away.

A mug is plonked on the table. "You can see more upstairs." He says.

Nat is right. The view is better. Where we stood, the open classroom. I aim my digicam and shoot.


*

Snapshots: Winter '03

Grounding ends.

I see Nat at long last but he says he's seeing someone else now. Me dissected frog-like. Heart torn out. I love you, Nat...

Cry myself to sleep each night. Want to die...

Parents ask what I'd like for Xmas. What I want they can't give.


*

Nat's hand on my shoulder. Whispers in my ear.

Ignore the danger signs forbidding entry.

We suddenly grapple at each other's clothing. Tear them open like the side of the school. Expose our skin to the hot air in his bedroom. An old summer night again, newly confined in walled daylight.

No more naive fumblings. We'd done it many times since. There's a breathless naked moment, facing each other, silence only broken by our panting.

Words don't matter.

Walls come tumbling down.

Our flesh collides, he slams his body against mine as if to demolish it. My nails excavate at his back so hard I might be drawing blood.

Wall of his room shudders as he lifts me up, knees draped over elbows, and grind my muff while I'm rammed against it. As he opens me up, the inner walls of my wet cunt tremble too but don't give way, just yet.

I can't help but think of school. How it brought us together twice. Lessons learned there.

Like the dead building, my time with Nat is past. I consider this, several years late, as getting him out of my system. I don't feel for him anymore, but I have needs.

And he was always good at biology.

Security minded pro now, he does a complete search of my every limb, each nerve, on his bed now. Lips on my skin. Tongue between my lips, toes, thighs, against my swollen sensitive clit. His fingers stroke my hair, massage my stomach, claw at me, gripping and spreading... then his cock slips into my gaping openness again.

My body feels taken apart, deconstructed, by the fearlessness of his fucking. Intense then, extreme now. My teen years are past, budding maturity replaced by the fullness of womanhood.

He still feels weird inside but bigger, more experienced. Bold feelings, wild twitches, confident movements. When he comes, I do for certain this time. If a building could scream when it's demolished, that's what I sound like. Loud, deep, crushed. Inner walls give way.

Attishoo, attishoo, all fall down!

I was useless at French but know la petite mort. Only, not so small. Death by dirtiness. Dirtier than muddy grass stains on a girl's playful knees.

But no longer as green.


*

Nat's parents are back a week Monday. I don't want him to know where I live now but take the Friday before off so we can be together again in his bed. I never did throw sickies, even at school. I was a good girl. Once.

I consider the end of school epitomised Nat dropping me. Its destruction is a new start.

We fuck each other silly, as across the road the heavy machines finally tear it down. I don't want to watch but the satisfying sounds of its passing mix with my own, as Nat teaches me more about biology.

Adult education. Sex: advanced theory & practical. New positions. Creativity welcome.

The sounds, wet sucking, slapping of Nat's cock inside... my moans of pleasure... the smells, scent of sweat, and the sharpness of his cum stirring my wetness... the sights, his face against mine, then above me, below me, as we build new structures with our entwined bodies...

Grade A+

Study buddies no more. Fuck buddies... perhaps.

I take some pictures of his exhausted, naked, sleeping body on the bed. Review them later, like the photos of school, then delete them all.

Use and discard.

I'm past caring.


*end*


Fuck Me Friday: Smut for the Weekend by Aisling Weaver