The Middle Sister, Part 2: Sibling Rivalry. free porn video

Izzy checks her face in the dresser mirror before leaving, the idling diesel of the taxi in the street below the bedroom urging her to hurry. I imagine the twitching curtains of neighbours, the scandal of our late hours.

My mind is racing, desperate, a succession of useless thoughts that could never forestall the inevitable.

 But then an idea arrives. Only half-formed, it might yet be fit for purpose, my get out of jail free card lifted from the chance pack stacked on the board of desperation. 

"Sebastion was talking about you earlier, Iz," I call to her as I rise from the bed and hurriedly dress, my words groping for an exit from personal darkness.

She stops attending to her reflection, turns to me and says, "You and Sebastion... Talking?"

"Is that so strange?"

"You detest him."

"Not to me. That Dutch girl with the impossible name. They were discussing you at the bar earlier. I overheard when I was buying drinks." 

"Sabastion and Joosje were talking about me?"

"Yeah, him and Joo..." My tongue trips on her name and I have to reorganise my tongue. "Him and Joosje. Something about you needing to meet someone. Something about it being the right part for you. 'Izzy would be just right for it,' I heard her say."

She returns her attention to the mirror, uses fingers to widen a single eye and adjusts a contact lens. "I don't believe you."

"You can ask them yourself." 

She stands up straight, turns to me again: "If you're lying..."

In the cab, I give the driver the name of Sebastion's club. We travel in silence, and I gaze from my window and Izzy hers, both of us mesmerised by the city centre's neon-gaud, both of us lost in private thoughts. 

I remember our lovemaking, the deliciousness of her cunt, her small breasts and soft buttocks. I consider asking if she'll suck my cock one last time but don't. Instead, I slip my hand into my pocket and squeeze my erection, try to conjure how it felt inside her. 

 She senses my gaze, turns and says, "If you were lying to me, Nathan... You'd best fess up now."

Her face slips into shadows as we pass under the railway arches, but her eyes have captured some sourceless light and retain it, bright as a ginnel cat fixed by headlights at midnight. 

I tell her, "Listen, Iz. I probably got the wrong end of the stick." 

When the street light returns to the interior, I see her lips have taken on a childish pout, her eyes flickering and tearful with rekindled hope. She has never looked so vulnerable, so trusting, so appealing. And then I know that fucking her has not cured me of an obsession. 

All of her previous hostility has abandoned her voice when she says, "I read something in The Stage. They're casting at Shepperton next month. A new version of Poe's House of Usher. That must be why Joosje is over." 

"Poe! Yeah, that's the guy," I offer, hardly believing she has taken the bait.

I text Hester:

You still at the club?

 She replies in an instant.

We're on our way to Sebastion's. What's keeping you? 

Izzy wanted to talk.

So you fucked her then?

Would that be so wrong?

I'm coming home.

We've already left the house.

Bastard! You fucked my sister!

I'm not that stupid.

It's so obvious you are.

What about you and Barrington?

Different.

Playing catch up?

I am now.

Where are you?

In a cab. 

Should I come?

Only if you want to watch.

Izzy too?

Sebastion was asking about her?

Asking?

I told him about you wanting to fuck her.

What did he say?

That he'd like to fuck both of us too.

I give the driver the new address. Then I ask Izzy, "I thought Sebastion lived in London?" 

"He has friends up here. Schol Harvey?"

"The slasher-flick-chick female director Schol Harvey?"

"No, Nathan, not the slasher-chick-flick female director Schol Harvey; the dark meditations on the absurd nature of women's lives in the twenty-first century Schol Harvey." She's pleased with herself for remembering the line, serving something up she has obviously read as her own.

"Is that the kind of crap they teach at RADA these days?"

"Oh-fuck-off, Nathan."

A loft apartment. Victorian brickwork and four vast metal-framed cotton mill windows. There is too much space, dimensions outgunning the sparse and eclectically mismatch of furniture. And books. A twenty-foot stretch of wall, floor to ceiling of crammed shelves. Noir, postmodern posters between each window, the pretentious avant-garde artwork for Schol Harvey's films.

 It's early summer but the place retains the chill of its empty winter months. The benefit of underfloor heating has yet to transcend the stripped, pale oak flooring. Hester and Joosje stand at a skip-salvaged sixties-retro mini-bar while Barrington mixes drinks and pompously narrates some theatrical anecdote. 

"What are you having, dear boy?" he calls to me, breaking from his monologue and holding an empty glass high when I enter the room. "And the ever-fabulous Izzy too. How delightful. We thought the sheets had claimed you both. The usual, darling?" he asks her as she slips out of her jacket. "Pink gin? On the rocks?"

"Aww, darling, you remembered. How sweet."

"And a Guinness for me," I call, feeling forgotten. "If you have one?"

"Sorry, old man, no can do. Women auteurs, eh! It'll have to be mixers or wine."

"Not for me," I tell him, shying from strong spirits. I am determined to keep my wits about me.

"Don't be so miserable," Hester says as Barrington passes her a tumbler of Scotch and nods that she should give it to me.

When she brings it over, I tell her, "I said I'm okay, didn't I!" Even so, I take the glass from her hand.

"Have you fucked her?" she asks. Quietly, rationally.

"I said, didn't I?"

"You didn't, actually."

"What are you two hatching?" Izzy says as she comes towards us nursing her drink. She stands too close and rattles the ice in her glass, its clatter a warning of the danger ahead. I fear that my life is about to spiral out of the sky.

"You two took ages. You must have had loads to talk about," Hester says.

Izzy is too quick to answer, and I hold my breath. "I was upset, that's all. But now I'm okay again. Nice of you to ask, sis. Your Nathan has been an angel."

There is an affected sympathy in Hester's tone when she says, "Sebastion was worried about you, Iz. I was too. And Joosje. They kept asking about you. See, Iz, how much we all love you, how all of us were concerned. I began to think the most awful thoughts."

"I needed to get stuff off my chest."

 Hester fixes her with a look that could wither spiders, her tone telling me she is prepared to execute all prisoners. "What kind of stuff?"

But Izzy holds her gaze, is completely unfazed. "Oh, you know... Thoughts about deceitful men — that kind of thing. But you wouldn't know about that, would you, Hester? Nathan would never do the dirty on you, would he? Because you two have an understanding." She turns to me with a look both complicit and murderous and says, "He's such a good listener, aren't you, Nathan, sweetheart?" And then she turns and looks at Joosje, who is still at the bar, and says, "And now I really must tear myself away. I need to speak to a colleague."

When Izzy has gone, Hester says, "You bastard! You really have fucked her, haven't you! I could see it in her eyes: that Little Miss Clever look of hers. Sebastion said you would."

"Would it be so bad if I had?"

"Not being honest with me is bad." 

"It was in the cab... she sucked my cock."

"And you just sat there and let her."

"Well, yeah." I shrug my shoulder. "What man wouldn't?"

"God, Nathan! You're so fucking selfish. At least now we're getting somewhere. We'll talk about it back home. Now finish your drink — Dutch courage. You're going to need it," she says, her eyes prompting me to turn and look at Joosje.

Am I forgiven, or is this merely a stay of execution? I try not to think about it, tell myself to take it one step at a time, enjoy the reprieve.

Joosje and Izzy are talking, thick as thespian thieves. I hope she tells Izzy something halfway close to what she so desperately needs to hear.

Barrington puts on music. Ambient and sensual. "Everyone must dance," he says, his words something between a decree and a plea. He holds out both arms in an invitation for someone to join him on the floor.

Hester fixes me with her eyes, and I try to imagine that it reconfirms our unshakable bond. But I know that deep down she must be full of resentment, fearful I have betrayed her emotionally as well as sexually. And so I tell her I love her, and I see how she wants to believe me but can't quite allow herself to — at least not just yet, not until she has extracted her pound of emotional flesh. But she should believe me — because I still do love her. 

For now, thoughts of Izzy and me have been folded away and stored in the cupboard of her mind. I have no doubt she will unpack them when it suits her. The inevitable postponed, I am so relieved. I have time to rationalise, prepare a defence.

She leans in and kisses me, slips her tongue into my mouth, the sugared pill to make what follows palatable before telling me, "Now it's time for what we agreed, yeah?"

She stands back to give me a searching look. My last chance to appeal, to forestall what I know will follow. And when I just stare blankly, neither smile nor nod, she reaches out and places her palm against my cheek and smiles before turning from me and walking over to Barrington, who is watching, waiting expectantly.

Seeing her walk towards him, I become newly enamoured by her tall beauty, her female animalness, her sturdiness, and curves viewed from behind that make her a stranger to me, some gorgeous possibility in a club. And I see now how the shout of her bright morning autumn hair, the roar of it over her bare shoulders, is the truth of her soul.

Barrington throws his arms wide to welcome my wife, and I watch as his all-encompassing certainty subsumes her. 

I wonder what Izzy will make of Hester and Barrington now dancing so intimately. When I throw her a glance, I see a new comprehension making itself at home among her pretty features. She touches Joosje lightly on the arm so that she turns from watching my wife and Barrington and focus on me.

They both watch me, and I stare right back. Then Joosje says something to Izzy, something I cannot hear. I intuit female collusion, arrangements, the cooking up of new torments, eyeing me up for the rack of their beauty? And I wonder if there is still time to confess to Hester, to make everything as it was between us, go back to yesterday. 

Then Izzy up on tiptoes kissing Joosje on the cheek before slipping off her shoes and skipping barefoot to join her sister and Barrington. She has her hands locked behind her back like a coy and pretty girl child seeking a favour but never quite having the courage to ask it. She wears a single, slim gold bangle looped about her ankle to draw the eye. The skitter of her silver-glossed toes on the pale oak floor is a choreographed performance. I watch the arch of her soles, the rise and twist of heels, the convexity of her calves as she stalks the dancers, circling the kiss-locked couple. 

Izzy's dress clings, emphasising those essential places and evoking memories of her lithe frame beneath. The limber of her muscles, their costume of ethereal flesh, her all too real bones. I focus on the shift of her hips as she moves, remember her buttocks beneath the slickest of garments, how both halves enfolded my cock when it momentarily rested between them just before I fucked her. I wonder if Barrington will sense the slop of my presence when fucks her too.

Hester's eyes are closed, lost to the music, subsumed by the bluff and camp machismo of Barrington's faux magnificence. And I wonder if she even knows her sister is so close and determined to join their dance. Quick as you like, Barrington's left arm has snagged Izzy by her wrist, incorporated and pleached her into the moment. 

Barrington bookended between the two sisters, their bellies and breasts limpet-like against his bulk, their curves and convexity thick with solvency. The legs of both girls widen as their hips undulate to the music, their crotches milling against his outer thighs, their hips a tidal swell advancing and withdrawing to the subtle cadence of the music's beat.

In turn, he kisses them. Hester first, then changing to Izzy, spending no more than twenty seconds with each. For a moment, between kisses, he looks over to Joosje and asks, "Why don't you join us, darling?" 

And when she does not reply, he encourages her with affected sad little boy gazes. And as he does so, his hands declare independence and descend in symmetrical accord down Izzy and Hester's backs, surmounting such disparate buttocks, coming to rest in the cleft between rump and thigh. Palm and fingers staunch the coming and going of the sisterly cheeks, grip tight to prevent their surge and retreat. God! How their movements must arouse him! The thought of touching both sisters at once makes my heart heave with envy, my cock want to burst. 

I look to Joosje, and she meets my gaze with eyes wild with expectation as she asks me, "You like to see your wife and sister like this?"

"She's not my sister," I reply, though my voice is barely audible, no longer my own.

"But such a thrill to think it, yes?" she says, hoping I might confess the inadmissible. "I like to see sisters enjoy good things together. Family is so important — don't you agree?" She stands and comes to where I stand, the spot where Hester abandoned me. She takes my hand and leads me to the sofa, where we sit side by side. She turns to me and half-whispers, "Which sister will Sebastion choose? Such responsibility for a man! He will not want to offend — so why must he choose?"  

"He seems to like my missus well enough," I mutter to myself.

Her hand goes to my crotch, brail fingers reading my size, deciphering capability. "You like thinking this, don't you," she says, "Sebastion fucking your wife? You want him to choose her, don't you?" Her grip on my cock is malicious, squeezing harder as she continues, "Perhaps you have known this... what is the word — this dilemma, the difficulty Sebastion now faces? Does the cute sister come to you and your wife? Both are such beautiful, amenable women!" And when I don't reply, she squeezes my cock even harder and says, "See how hard it makes you to be thinking this."

She begins to undo the buckle of my belt, unzips my trousers and extracts my cock and holds it at ninety-five degrees to my body. As she studies me, her hand grips and relaxes, tentatively rising and falling before she looks up to watch the three dancing figures. Finally, without bothering to look at me again, she relinquishes her hold, stands up and says, "You must see to yourself now. It is my time to join with sisters. You wait here. Be good boy, eh?"

Joosje is a tall, mid-twenty-something blonde, slim and indecently beautiful, a beauty that becomes sheer elegance when she rises to her feet and strides with catwalk confidence to Barrington and his devotees. Like Izzy before her, she circles the tight knot of bodies, pausing as if suddenly unsure about gatecrashing the moment. As Barrington continues to kiss each girl in turn, Joosje circles as a presence only intuited, a visitation about to manifest as an angelic intervention. 

Joosje positions herself behind Izzy, towering over her sylphid slightness where she clings to Barrington as if she might falter and fall without his support. The Dutch girl places one hand on each side of Izzy's hips, stepping forward to dismiss the gap between them by thrusting her thighs against Izzy's subtly undulating buttocks. As Hester does so, she lowers her head to taste the nape of Izzy's neck, sends her tongue licking in long, slow passes.

A re-positioning happens, a twist and tussle of their limbs as they subsume Joosje into the thicket of their bodies. Barrington breaks from kissing Hester to welcome Joosje by kissing her forcefully. His enthusiasm for womankind is inexhaustible.

With Barrington's focus momentarily on Joosje, Hester and Izzy become acutely aware of each other, the ramifications that sharing Barrington could bring. Izzy takes her sister's hand, draws her close and whispers in her ear. When they part, there is confusion in Hester's eyes. And in an instant, I see the precipice on which the sisters stand, the one that might swallow blood ties, love and futures. My cock is ready to burst its skin at the thought of trashed taboos.

Joosje breaks from kissing Barrington and turns her attention to the two sisters. She draws each to her in turn, kisses them long and slow. Then, without outstretched arms, like a pen shielding her wayward signets beneath her wing, she manoeuvres the sisters so that they face each other, urging them to kiss.

Izzy in her sister's arms, her eyes defiant, taunting, looking up and daring Hester to reject her, despise her. And if Hester leans any closer, she might yet step into that void. But Hester's openness to sensual novelty is not wide enough to allow incest a place in the menagerie of her sexuality. Even if not intimidated by taboo, she understands the creep of shame that would follow from it and poison her soul. Already she can hear the baying of twin hounds, regret and remorse, that would track her for the rest of her days.

As if jerked awake at the border of dreams by a stumble, she awakens and is ashamed. Sobered by ramifications, she turns away, scorning her sister and despising Joosje. She reaches out for Barrington and draws him to her. 

But he turns her around to face her sister once again, saying, "Don't be so bourgeoise, darling. If only this were Cleopatra's Egypt: The Ptolemies understood a thing or two about families." 

But Hester refuses to play their game, turns to Barrington and stretches herself cat-like up on her toes to whisper in his ear. Her case made, he kisses her tenderly. Then their mouths and bodies part, and she takes his hand and leads him over to the sofa where I have remained since Joosje abandoned me there only minutes ago.

"Come with us, darling: Sebastion says it's okay for you to watch."

"How magnanimous of him," I say.

"Maybe lend a hand?" she adds with an impish glint in her eyes. I see how pleased she is by the discomfort her words cause me.

I'm on my feet in an instant, volunteering for voyeuristic humiliation, soon following the pair into the bedroom. But before closing the door behind me, I turn and look back at Joosje and Izzy. Little sis-in-law is minus her dress now, down to her panties — the ones she pulled back over her sweet toot after I'd fucked her senseless earlier. I imagine the state of their gusset, the cotton icky with the drying tack of my cum, the hardly anything of their silkiness stretched apart at her ankles, her stance firm and wide to facilitate Joosje's pawing fingers as they grope for her pussy. 

The Dutch girl licks incessantly, her excited puppy tongue lapping in sloppy passes over Izzy's throat and neck. And now she has her fingers in Izzy's cunt working like the machinery that once filled this space. Then her lips and teeth are steering a new course up to Izzy's mouth before moving on to her cheeks, eyebrows. A handbrake turn at her forehead to send her tongue skating back down to those perennially available lips, licking from corner to corner before becoming lost to view. Their mouths lock, airtight. There is nothing further I want to see here. I turn away and go to my wife to watch her fucked by her new lover.

In the bedroom Hester is undressing, Barrington watching from the comfort of an Ikea chair. 

"Slowly," he tells her as her dress falls to the floor. His voice is thick with what I imagine the satisfaction of conquest. "Your wife is extraordinarily lovely, dear boy," he says, turning and throwing me a glance as I move further into the bedroom, my eyes now fixed solely on Hester's striptease. "If there are issues, I can always make do with one of the other lovelies," he adds.

"Not a problem, mate," I say. "Glad she meets with your approval." I try to sound blokeish, one man bestowing a favour on an equal. But I cannot entirely hide my resentment, the feeling of shame at being so aroused by this moment, this white flame of my need to see my wife fucked by the likes of him.

Hester performs what to me is the familiar chore of undressing herself, both hands reaching back to tackle the fastening of her bra. Such a mundane sight, one I have witnessed countless times. But there is nothing day-to-day about how she disrobes for Sebastion, every movement thoughtfully executed, intended to arouse. Her breasts are her best feature, and she knows it. There is a marble statuesqueness to her body, her breasts ample yet still retaining the pliant definition of a young girl in full bloom — such a contrast to Izzy's unfulfilled promise. And for the first time in the five years of our marriage, I see how proud she is of her breasts, smug in their size as she cups them from beneath and commands Barrington to attend them with her eyes. She lifts and presents them, and there is such pleasure in her offering, conceit in her smile.

She turns from him, suddenly coy as she wriggles away her knickers, kicking them into touch with a careless foot when they fall to the floor.

"Kneel on the bed with your sweet posterior facing me, if you would, darling," Barrington tells her.

She does not hesitate, climbs onto the enormous mattress, suddenly reduced to a bitch on heat by his request. She stretches herself, her torso elongated and swaybacked, chest lower than her rump so that her breasts flatten and bulge against the duvet. Her arms stretch out before her in a deviant supplicant's debased prostration.

Her need and subjugation could not be more explicit. Her butt never so inviting. And I think, if I were Barrington I'd want to get my cock between those two crushingly delicious cheeks.

Barrington stands motionless and regards Hester as if hardly believing what he sees. Completely static, fixed in place as if posing for an art class consisting of just one student, one who can no longer control his arousal the sight of her has elicited. He stands up and begins undoing the buttons of his shirt. And as he undresses, he turns to me and says, "Attend to your wife for a moment — there's a good chap. I hate to see a lady neglected."

I'm not sure what he means by 'attend'. And so I go to Hester and run a tentative forefinger along the fissure of her butt. From coccyx to the pad of her perineum. When I slip the curl of my hand between squash of her upper thighs, her flesh becomes a stranger's.

 My fingers quickly find and claiming her cunt. I want to get the measure of her arousal, become astonished by her wetness when both fingers sink fast and sink deep. The home ground of her cunt is sumptuous from the expectation of Barrington's cock. When I begin to finger-fuck her, she lets out a moan. My two digits wallow up to the knuckles.

A naked Barrington stands next to me, his cock protruding heavily before him at ninety degrees, pulled low by size and sheer bulk. And by his lust for my wife. I stifle an urge to reach out and touch it, confirm if his size is for real. Occasionally I have allowed myself to entertain the idea of joining my wife and her lover. Sucking cock has a dangerous appeal, a habit I have often wondered if I should cultivate.

He has seen the crafty look I have thrown his cock, says, without fear of censure, "Feel free to touch. Suck to your heart's content, dear boy — if you feel so inclined."

But I no longer feel 'so inclined', quickly squash the urge and step back to watch as he kneels on the bed and begins to lick first one cheek and then the other of Hester's solidly constructed Romanesque arched buttocks.

I move to the side of the bed, close to Hester's face. I want to watch the flux of her expressions as Barrington sends his tongue skating down the crack of her buttocks. The way he licks her has the air of a man sealing a vital letter into its brown manilla but never getting the two halves wet enough to adhere. I imagine him finally pushing both halves together to make them stick. 

As if to study his subject, he breaks off for a moment and separates her saliva slathered cheeks with careful fingers, parting the curtaining flesh before returning his mouth and tongue to the task in hand with renewed enthusiasm. He aims for deep penetration, his nose lost to sight. I imagine how it must feel to have the welcoming pudge of Hester's warm and pliant arse-flesh closing around either side of his face, the crinkle of her anus on the tip of his tongue. I wonder if the stubble of his whisker-shadow pricks her flesh and adds to her pleasure.

As Barrington's tongue lashes her anus, Hester's determination to maintain her pose start to wain. She lets out a long, guttural moan as pleasure robs her of muscular control. Between her arse cheeks, Barrington is a truffle hound, some delicacy unearthed. The pressure of his mouth forces Hester's torso and hips to sink low until she is flat on her belly, thighs ratcheted wide either side of his shoulders, all decorum lost in a frenzy of guzzle and slurps of the most uncouth kind.

Hester, her head on one side flat on the duvet, her eyes are searching me out from the edges of bliss.

My voice is no longer mine, derailed by the thrill of humiliation and arousal, I ask her, "Do you like his tongue in your arse?"

"God, do I ever?"

 But her reply is more than an answer; it is a confession of the lack in our marriage.

He turns her bodily on the duvet, shifts her like cargo, consumables, sacked produce, stretches her out and parts her legs, and then lets his tongue set about her clit. His hands stretch for her breasts, forearms and wrists resting on her ribs as fingers and thumbs find their mark.

Hester closes her eyes and gives herself up to the mind-consuming ecstasy of bodily pleasure. I reach out my hand and direct my fingers, tracing the line of her jaw, tipping her head to the side so that she will attend to me. And when she fails to respond, her eyes refusing to open, I pinch her flushed cheek.

Only then does she open her eyes and gaze back at me, her mind devoid of understanding, thoughts elsewhere, lost to her surroundings. I am a stranger; our shared past negated, stolen by the skill of his unselfish tongue. Him slathering her clit is now the only reality for her. But when I lean in to kiss her lips, I sense a fleeting moment of recognition before she closes her eyes again and surrenders to the orgasm he has triggered below.

Her body buckles and arches, her hips straining to extract something unobtainable from any man's tongue. And between her lips, in the slosh and dark of her mouth's confinement, our tongues probe and counter. And as I kiss her I share the bliss that ravages her, the extremes of voltage stymied by her moans. 

Both her hands grip either side of my head, palms cradling my jaw, painted nails digging into my scalp, drawing my mouth to hers so that our lips become hermetic. But her pleasure is too great, and her body twists away from me as she lets out a wail that announces an ending. It is a sound animal and human, a sound that upends every assumption I ever had about Hester as my wife. It is a banshee wail that my beautiful, rational Hester could never own.

Barrington does not give her a moment, does not allow her to gather herself. He is up and looming, brushing me aside in his haste to penetrate my wife. Her legs accommodate him, thrown arched and wide, her head turned to one side with flushed cheek flat against the duvet. Her coffered hair has become disarranged, body and face dewed by perspiration. She sets her eyes on me as if I am to witness what follows. I will testify if her memory should fail.

Barrington lunges, and Hester groans her dismay; his energy and cock's size have surpassed expectation, are a shock to composure. His first thrust has robbed her lungs of air, and she struggles to acclimatise to the severity of his thrusts, closes her eyes and endures. He has achieved full command of her body and mind. Soon she grows accustomed to his brutishness, his selfishness. She raises both hands and takes his head between her palms as he fucks her, drawing back her knees and encircles him with both legs. Her thighs a vice, calves against his back exerting control, her crossed heels in the base of his spine spurring him to exceed himself. 

I'm superfluous to their needs now. And so I stand up and step aside, walk backwards, panning out for the bigger picture. From the bedroom door, I watch Barrington's backside rise and fall. And the way Hester raises her hips to greet his thrusts, giving back as much as she takes. The sight of them together, a bastard like him fucking my wife, touches something beyond jealousy and desire. Their rutting becomes a spectacle, a performance, athletics. They are two human creatures expressing something they don't need to understand, driven by something wired, instinctive, animal.

I can no longer watch, slip from the room to look for Josjee and Izzy. But the sofa is empty and my spirits sink. I feel abandoned, so alone. I go to the window and look out into the night, expecting to see the two girls hand in hand walking by the river. But the streets are deserted, free of traffic and people, only the spilling light of tall building on the opposite bank reflected in the river. The water's surface is glass-still, its reflecting surface moonlight-plated.

The sound of girlish giggling from behind a door that I had forgotten was there. I walk to it, do not knock, just push it open and step inside.

On the bed in amber lamplight, Izzy straddles Joosjee, her hips undulating over the Dutch girl's abdomen. Her head thrown back, arms raised, elbows like wings, fingers locked together at the base of her skull, she rides Joosje into an inner world of her very own creation. Joosje's arms stretch upwards, the forefinger and thumb of each hand have claimed a nipple, tweaking and pulling in a way that can only bring pain. When Izzy hears me enter and turns to me, not for an instant slowing her pace, her eyes flash with glee. Having me present adds to her pleasure. "Oh, Nathan, it's you." Her voice is a runner's at the edge of exhaustion, her words exhaled from the edge of her orgasm, each word punctuated to take in oxygen: "Ah! Nathan. Just. In. Time. To. Watch. Me. Cuuuuuuuummmmmm!"

                                          *******

It is a couple of days before Hester and I get to talk. I have purposefully not questioned her about Barrington, have held off fishing for insights into her feelings about that night. But questions about him are only my opening gambit, sweeteners to smooth the way to my shiny new obsession.

And as we lie side by side in our bed late that Tuesday evening, our lovemaking done, I hardly know how to begin.

"I thought you'd be so pissed about Izzy and me," I say, sure I'm on solid ground.

"It was bound to happen," Hester says disinterestedly. It is as if she no longer cares one way or the other.

"And you're okay with it?"

"Was fucking her twice enough?"

"She's not who I thought she was."

"She is something much more than I thought she was!"

"When you were dancing with Sebation — when Joosje joined you, and there was just you and Izzy — there was that look you shared."

"They wanted us to kiss each other."

"Izz would have too. I saw it in her eyes. I think she would do anything to be in his good books."

"And I nearly let her. How shameful is that!"

"I really thought you were going to. And now I can't stop thinking what it would be like to see you together."

"That's what Sebastion said the next morning. He wants to fuck you too."

"Jeez! That would be some sick party."

"Wouldn't it just!"