Chapter 5: The Artist's First Sketch
The rain softened to a whisper against the glass. In the quiet that followed Catriona’s toast, Isla’s grin turned wicked. She took a final, quick gulp of coffee, the mug clacking loudly on the saucer.
“Right then,” she said, bending to her portfolio again. Her damp shirt gaped, offering a glimpse of pale, freckled breast. She didn’t seem to notice, or care. “Before we discuss lighting, you should see my recent work. Context is everything.”
She withdrew a sleek black folio, its cover smooth and cool. Opening it on the table, she revealed a series of 8x10 prints. They weren’t the stormy, grainy Polaroids from the other night. These were sharp, high-contrast black and whites, meticulously composed.
The first was a self-portrait. Isla lay on a rumpled white sheet, her body a landscape of light and shadow. Her skin glistened, oiled, every freckle a stark pinpoint. Her own hand was curled between her thighs, fingers just disappearing into the dark shadow there. Her head was thrown back, neck exposed, but her eyes were locked directly on the lens—a challenge, an invitation.
Catriona leaned forward, her clinical vet’s gaze sweeping the image. She made a soft, considering sound in her throat. “The lighting is beautiful. Window light?”
“North facing. Mid-afternoon,” Isla nodded, her voice dropping into a professional register. She flipped to the next.
This one was closer. The curve of her lower belly, the delicate crease of her thigh, the precise, wet gloss of her labia. The focus was so sharp it felt invasive. Aidan’s mouth went dry. He could smell the rain on her, the coffee, and underneath it, the warm, clean scent of her skin from the photograph.
“These are… explicit,” Catriona stated, not disapprovingly, but as a fact.
“They’re honest,” Isla corrected gently. “They’re about texture. Temperature. The way light licks the body.” She looked at Aidan, her hazel eyes bright. “I want to photograph you like this. Not just your cock, Aidan. All of you. The strain in your shoulders. The way your hand fists in the sheets. The look on your face when you’re about to come.” She turned to Catriona. “And you. I want to capture the way you watch him. That look you have—like you’re discovering him for the first time, every time.”
Catriona held her gaze. The air in the sunlit nook grew heavy, syrupy. Aidan felt the decision solidify, not as a spoken agreement, but as a physical shift in the room. The proposal was no longer abstract. It was here, in these images, in Isla’s daring eyes.
Catriona reached out and traced the edge of the photograph, her finger just brushing the printed image of Isla’s skin. “We should begin,” she said, her voice husky. “While the light is still soft.”
Isla’s breath hitched, a tiny, thrilled sound. “Now?”
“Why wait?” Catriona stood, pushing her chair back. She looked at Aidan, and the warmth in her smile was for him alone—a private signal amidst the gathering storm. “Darling? The rug is thicker.”
It wasn’t a command. It was a conspiratorial suggestion. Aidan felt a potent surge of heat, his cock already hardening against his thigh. He nodded, words failing him.
Isla was moving before he could. She stood, her movements fluid, and hooked her thumbs into the hem of her still-damp white shirt. In one smooth motion, she pulled it over her head and dropped it on the chair. She wore nothing underneath. Her breasts were small, high, tipped with rose-gold nipples that tightened in the cool air. Freckles dusted her collarbones, her sternum.
“Better,” she breathed, and then she was sinking to her knees on the woven rug before him. The morning light gilded the auburn curls between her legs. She looked up at him, all playful audacity gone, replaced by a focused hunger. “Let me see.”
Her hands went to the waistband of his loose shorts. She tugged them down, and his erection sprang free, already thick and heavy. Isla’s eyes widened, a fresh appreciation dawning even after their previous night together. “Jesus. Photographs do not do it justice.”
She didn’t hesitate. Leaning forward, she pressed her open mouth to the underside of his shaft, a long, slow lick from root to tip. Her tongue was hot, pointed. Aidan’s hips jerked. He braced a hand on the breakfast table.
Catriona watched, one hand resting idly on her own stomach, the other toying with the neckline of her sundress. Her eyes were dark, absorbing every detail.
Isla took him into her mouth. It was a slow, deliberate conquest. Her lips stretched obscenely around his girth, her eyes watering instantly. A tear traced a path through the freckles on her cheek. She made a low, guttural sound of satisfaction, the vibration traveling straight to his core. Her head began to bob, her hands cupping his balls, rolling them with a practiced ease.
Aidan groaned, fingers tangling in her damp hair. The sight was unbelievable—this vibrant, fearless girl on her knees, her mouth full of him, in the middle of their sunny kitchen. The normality of the room—the vase of wildflowers, the abandoned coffee mugs—made it feel dreamlike, debauched.
Then Catriona moved. She knelt beside Isla, the fabric of her dress pooling around her. She didn’t look at Isla; she looked at Aidan, holding his gaze as her hand joined Isla’s mouth. Her fingers wrapped around the base of his cock, where Isla’s lips couldn’t reach, and she began to stroke in time with the younger woman’s sucks.
“She’s good, isn’t she?” Catriona murmured, her voice a rough caress. “Look at her. She can’t get enough.”
Isla whimpered around him, her eyelids fluttering. Catriona leaned in then, and placed a soft, open-mouthed kiss on Isla’s shoulder. Then she lowered her head, her curly chestnut hair mixing with Isla’s auburn waves, and her tongue joined the feast. She licked a broad stripe up his shaft, following the path of Isla’s mouth, until their tongues met on the flushed, leaking head.
The sensation was electric, overwhelming. Two mouths, two sets of lips and tongues, worshipping him. The visual was even more potent: his wife and their lover, united in this act, sharing him. Aidan’s breath came in ragged gasps. The pressure coiled, tight and urgent, in his belly.
He couldn’t last. Not like this.
With a growl that was almost a sob, he pulled back. Isla released him with a wet, protesting pop, her lips swollen and glossy. Both women looked up at him, their faces flushed, eyes blurred with lust.
“The rug,” he managed, his voice shredded.
He didn’t ask. He reached down, hooking his hands under their arms, and pulled them both up. He guided them down onto the thick, woolen rug, the one they’d chosen together in a market in Marrakech. The sun warmed their skin. Isla wriggled out of her jeans, kicking them aside. Catriona simply pushed her sundress up around her waist.
They lay side by side before him, a breathtaking diptych of offered flesh. Catriona, all generous curves and warm, familiar beauty. Isla, taut and lean, a map of constellations on her skin.
Aidan knelt between them, his cock throbbing, a vein pulsing insistently along its length. He looked from one to the other. Catriona’s eyes were soft with love and a fierce, shared excitement. Isla’s were blazing with pure, unadulterated want.
He loved the creampie. The profound intimacy of it, the hot, claiming release deep inside. It was the ultimate gift he gave Catriona, and she treasured it. Now, the choice was his. Who to gift it to first?
His hand reached out, hovering over Catriona’s stomach, then trailing down to the neat thatch of curls between Isla’s thighs. He watched his own fingers, thick and slightly rough, as they dipped into Isla’s wetness. She arched off the rug with a sharp cry.
Then his hand moved to Catriona, sliding through her familiar, slick folds. She bit her lip, a moan escaping.
The connection between them, the three of them, was a live wire. The promise of the camera, the shadow of the portfolio on the table, the memory of the deleted text—all of it funneled into this single, suspended moment.
He leaned forward, bracing himself on his arms, his body covering theirs. The sun blinded him for a second.
“Aidan,” Catriona whispered, her hand coming up to cradle his jaw.
“Please,” Isla breathed, spreading her legs wider, her heel digging into the rug.
He lowered his hips. The head of his cock found not one entrance, but pressed against the slick confluence of both, a hot, impossible tease. He made his choice.