© Harper Bliss 2014

I close my eyes and listen to her voice. No one speaks like Catherine. My brother Andy sometimes imitates the way she pronounces the word ‘rather’, like someone from a different century. I always snicker, but nobody knows what it does to me inside.

“I’d rather not venture into town today,” Catherine says.

I widen my eyelids a fraction at the mention of the word. Catherine has intertwined her fingers behind her neck and rests the back of her head on her palms. The pose seems almost too bold for her, too un-ladylike. I can’t keep my eyes off her.

“Of course, love.” My dad’s Yorkshire accent sounds crass next to Catherine’s noble use of vowels. “You stay here and enjoy the pool.”

“Tilly will keep you company.” Mum pinches me in the bicep. “If she ever properly wakes up.”

I shoot Catherine a slow, sly smile and, in silence, we count the seconds until my parents leave. The seconds are long and hang between us like the heavy summer air, rich with the promise of beautiful days and humid with the sweat from our skin.

This is all the foreplay we need.

Catherine fixes her gaze on a spot just below my neck and my blood picks up speed in my veins. This is my family’s summer house and I didn’t bother to put on a bra for breakfast. I’m suddenly very aware of how my breasts, only covered by a flimsy, pale yellow tank top, rise and fall with my breath. Already my mind drifts to that delicious moment when Catherine will scoop them in her hands, just for a brief second, before pinching my nipples hard between her fingers.

I let my gaze drift to her hands, which now rest in her lap. Her fingers are long and her nails are always impeccably painted. A tight-fitted linen summer dress hugs her frame. No matter how high temperatures rise here, Catherine doesn’t do loose-hanging clothes.

Slowly, she lifts a finger to her mouth—the one she’ll fuck me with later. She drags the tip over her bottom lip. When my mum’s heels clatter on the tiles behind her, she lets it trail to her chin and assumes a pensive pose. Her eyes don’t leave mine.

“We’ll be gone a few hours.” Mum begins to clear the breakfast dishes.

“Leave it, mum.” My voice comes out much hoarser than I had expected. “I’ll take care of that.”

She shoots me a look as if she knows something, but she doesn’t. Her mind wouldn’t even go there. Catherine is her most respectable friend, with the best pedigree, the right designer clothes and—inherited from her deceased husband—a fortune to her name.

“Very well, then.” Mum straightens her back. “Are you ready, George?” She calls for my dad who stumbles out of the kitchen onto the terrace.

“Have a wonderful time.” Catherine gets up to kiss them goodbye. “I’ll make supper tonight.” The way she says it already makes it sound like a feast.

I wave my mum and dad off from my seat in the morning sun. We don’t move while we listen to the sound of tires screeching through gravel. We wait until the hum of the motor has completely died down. My cunt doesn’t wait though. I can feel moisture gather in the pyjama shorts I’m still wearing.

“Now then.” Catherine picks up a jar of strawberry jam. “We’d best clean this up.” She unscrews the lid and dips a finger in the red goo. Four nights we’ve spent together, but I already know better than to move without permission. “You’d best take off your clothes, Tilly. This could get messy.”

It doesn’t take me long to slip out of my tank and shorts. Naked, I stand in front of her. My skin shivers with anticipation. The sun warms my exposed nipples. I resist the urge to squeeze my legs together because I know she’ll want them wide. Heat pools in my blood.

She inches closer, her finger still in the jam jar.

“Toast is so inadequate.” Her voice is near and posh. My nipples harden. She lifts her finger from the jar and smears a dollop of jam right above my left nipple. It feels as if she’s grabbed me between the legs. My breath hitches in my throat and my nipples stiffen further. A droplet of hot moisture trickles down my upper thigh.

“This—” She eyes my jam-topped breast. “—looks so much better.” With the tip of her finger she rubs the jam all over my nipple, before dipping her head down to lick it off.

When her tongue connects, my muscles tense and slacken. My spine ripples.

She wipes her fingers on the skin of my belly as they travel down. What’s left of the jam mingles with my wetness. The sun is hot on my scalp and when she enters, her lips still stuck on my nipple, I think I will explode with heat.

Instead, I crash through my legs onto the lawn next to the terrace.

“Talk to me,” I say as I lay down on my back and spread wide. The grass tickles my back. The breeze cools my lips. I want to hear her voice when she slips her finger inside again.

“You look extraordinary…” She drapes herself across my flank, her skin moist against mine. “…in strawberry.” Her lips graze my neck before finding my ear. “I hear it’s all the rage this summer.” Her voice is a soft whisper. Her fingers have reached my clit and the mere presence of them so close to my cunt makes me gasp. I want to open up wider for her, buck my hips higher.

“But let’s not talk about fashion.” She slides two fingers over my clit to my entrance. “I’d rather fuck you instead.”

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