Victoria, minus her knickers.
Vicki's lips still taste of jasmine, and my own release when she pulls back, her thumb tracing my swollen lower lip.
The drawing room feels too small, the air too thick with the scent of my sweat and pleasure. She reads the restlessness in my trembling hands.
"Come," she murmurs, that low voice wrapping around me like silk. "The garden. You need air."
I follow her through the French doors, my legs unsteady beneath me. The evening light filters through the oak branches, casting everything in amber and shadow. My dress has been hastily readjusted, the fabric catching against my still-sensitive skin. I'm acutely aware of the absence beneath—the cotton against my bare folds, the cool air finding its way between my thighs with each step.
There it stands—a swing suspended from the thickest oak branch, its ropes weathered to a soft grey. Vicki guides me onto the wooden seat, her hands firm on my waist.
"Fragonard's swing," she says, her breath warm against my ear. "You know the painting. The young woman soaring above her lover, her skirts billowing, her slipper kicked toward the statue of Cupid." Her fingers trail down my arm. "He looks up from below, you see. He sees everything beneath those silk skirts. Every private feminine secret."
She pushes me. The swing arcs forward, and the breeze rushes up my dress, cool against my soaked, bare flesh. I gasp, gripping the ropes.
"Higher," Vicki commands, and pushes again.
The world tilts. My feet leave the ground. The hem of my dress flutters and lifts, and I'm flying—weightless and exposed. The sensation is intoxicating, the air licking at my wet pussy like a phantom tongue.
"Imagine him," Vicki calls from behind me. "The lover in the bushes. Watching. Waiting to see what you'll show him."
I close my eyes. The swing reaches its apex, and for one suspended moment, I'm the woman in the painting—wanton, displayed, desired. My thighs fall open slightly, instinctively.
When I open my eyes again, I see him.
He stands on the lawn, perhaps twenty feet away, half-hidden by the rhododendron bushes. Tall. Dark-haired. His face is angled upward, his gaze fixed precisely where my dress has billowed open. He's staring straight up my dress—straight at my glistening, bare pink crinkles.
Naughty happiness shoots through me. I try to press my knees together, but the swing is still moving, my body still exposed. My hands tighten on the ropes.
Oh God. I have no panties. Yet, it's freedom, not shame.
The swing slows. I sit there, trembling, my dress pooled around my thighs, my heart hammering against my ribs. The stranger doesn't look away. His eyes are dark, hungry, seeking.
"Vicki," I whisper, turning my head.
The space behind me is empty. The lawn stretches vacant toward the house. No rustling day gown, no knowing smirk, no husky voice offering guidance.
Where is Vicki?
My pulse spikes. I'm alone with this stranger, my quim still swollen and wet from the harem fantasy, my body betraying me with a fresh surge of heat. He steps forward. One measured pace. Then another.
"Don't move," he says. His voice is deep, rough with arousal.
I should run. Instead, I sit on the swing, my thighs still parted, my breath coming in shallow gasps.
He reaches me. His eyes travel slowly up my body—over my hardened nipples pressing against the thin fabric, my flushed throat, my parted lips. Then back down to where I'm slick and open and wanting.
"No panties." The words fall from his mouth like a verdict. "You're dripping, you filthy little exhibitionist. You wanted me to see, didn't you?"
I shake my head, but my body tells a different story. My nipples ache. My slit clenches around nothing, desperate to be filled.
"Liar." He steps closer, his hand landing on my knee. His palm is warm. "You're soaked. I can smell you from here—sweet and used and hungry for cock."
His hand slides up my thigh. I whimper, my head falling back against the swing's rope.
"Tell me to stop," he challenges.
I say nothing.
His fingers reach my folds. He groans when he finds how wet I am, sliding two fingers inside me with one brutal thrust. My back arches off the swing seat.
"That's it," he growls, pumping his fingers slowly. "Take it. You were made to be fucked in gardens like a common whore."
He withdraws his fingers abruptly and grabs my wrist, pulling me off the swing. I stumble against his chest. Before I can catch my breath, he spins me around and bends me over the swing seat, my ass raised high in the air.
"Look at this," he breathes, flipping my dress up over my hips. "Such a pretty arse. It needs to be punished."
His hand cracks down on my right cheek. The sting makes me cry out, my flesh jiggling from the impact. He doesn't pause—another slap, then another, alternating cheeks until my skin burns and I'm sobbing with need.
"You like that, don't you?" Smack. "You like being spanked like the desperate slut you are." Smack. "Your cunt is dripping down your thighs."
He's right. I can feel my arousal sliding down my legs, slick and shameless.
He stops. I hear the rustle of fabric, the clink of a belt buckle. Then his hands are on my waist, lifting me, turning me.
"On the grass," he commands. "On your back."
I sink onto the cool lawn, the blades pricking my heated skin. He strips efficiently—broad shoulders, lean hips, a cock jutting thick and hard from a nest of dark curls. He straddles my chest, his knees on either side of my head.
"Open your mouth."
I obey. He feeds me his cock, inch by inch, until I'm gagging around his girth. My eyes water. He pulls back, letting me gasp for air, then thrusts in again, fucking my face with deep, relentless strokes.
"Suck it," he orders. "Get it nice and wet for your quim."
I swirl my tongue, tasting his pre-cum, hollowing my cheeks around his shaft. He groans, his hips stuttering.
Then he shifts—moving up my body, his knees bracketing my face. His balls hang heavy above my mouth, his arse descending toward my face.
"Lick," he says, lowering himself. "Tongue my arsehole while I sit on your face."
I've never—I hesitate. He settles his weight, his musky scent overwhelming my senses. My tongue darts out, circling the tight puckered entrance. He groans, grinding down.
"That's it. Deeper. Fuck my arse with your tongue."
I obey, pressing inside, tasting salt and skin and something forbidden. My own cunt throbs, neglected and desperate. I moan against his flesh, and he takes it as encouragement, riding my face with increasing urgency.
"Good girl," he breathes. "Such a good little arse-licker."
He lifts off me suddenly, leaving me gasping. Before I can protest, he's between my thighs, spreading me open with his thumbs.
"Look at this pretty pussy," he murmurs. "So pink. So swollen. It needs to be filled."
He notches his cock at my entrance and drives inside with one brutal thrust. I scream—the stretch is exquisite, his thickness filling me. He doesn't wait for me to adjust. He fucks me hard, his hips slapping against my spanked arse, the sound echoing through the garden.
"Take it," he grunts. "Take my cock, you filthy slut. You wanted this—wanted to be fucked where anyone could see."
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. The grass scratches my back, the evening air cools my sweat-slicked skin, and his cock pounds into me with merciless rhythm. My orgasm builds like a river dropping into a waterfall.
"Come for me," he commands, his thumb finding my clit. "Come on my cock like the exhibitionist wench you are."
I shatter. My womanhood embraces him, spasming wildly as pleasure crashes through me. He follows with a roar, spilling hot inside me, his hips jerking through the final aftershocks.
He collapses beside me on the grass. Above us, the oak branches sway. Somewhere, a bird calls.
And somewhere, I know Vicki is watching.