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Chantal strutted onto the patio, glided down the stone steps, threw her lady-bundle onto the sun lounger, and faced the camera. The sun lit up her burnt sienna hair, accentuating her crème caramel extensions. She raised her arms and clawed at her shocking mane. A stray kiss-curl brushed her lips.Raising her brows, fluttering her lashes, she let an arm hang around the full curve of her bum, her slim fingers scratching the backs of her greatest assets, her faintly tanned thighs. Chantal was modelling sexy lingerie: a candy apple red bra, a crotch-hugging red thong, sheer black tights fringed with delicate lacy bits, classic rhubarb stilettoes. She purred like a contented cat, ‘What do you think, Dani, good?’‘Very good, Chantal. Can you just turn to face me? That’s it. Legs slightly apart. Lovely.’Dani took five consecutive shots of her muse, then nodded, watching avidly as she stripped off her bra and thong.Beautiful, quite beautiful.Chantal squatted on her tummy. Dani felt her smooth skin as she reclined on the sun lounger sipping pink gin, closing her eyes, gently caressing her muse’s breasts, the dimples in the small of her back, her pert buttocks. Finding the girl’s intimacy overwhelming. Barely able to contain her excitement. taksim escort The divine thrill of Chantal’s naked body, rubbing, gently, against hers in the heat of the torrid afternoon.She wiped the sun-tears from her eyes. The sea’s glare made her cry. Her muse raked her shock of caramel in a thick drape, so that her bulk hung heavily down one side of her blushing face. Fascinating, the way Chantal’s act of facial exposure made her blush in a rash over her cheeks, neck, chest, breasts, tummy, thighs, heightening the delicate fawn in her freckles. Fascinating, how her intimate exposé gave her face colour, her thin neck, the gilded look of a swan.Dani fantasized, feeling her girl’s tongue probe her mouth, gagging her with an obscene desire. Chantal stopped rubbing herself on her lady’s tummy, stood up, and put on her swimsuit. The hooped bullring, crudely torn through her left earlobe, gave her the appearance of a gypsy, a sultry private dancer in the closed court of her lady. She bared her teeth, her cheeky gap, gave Dani a fierce snarl, breathed in at her midriff, and let her arms hang freely, flaunting her egg yolk swimsuit, its plunging neckline, swivelling her hips. Crying out for her, ‘Chanteuse!’She beşiktaş escort heard the camera click.‘How was that Dani?’ she cooed.Chantal knew full well that she was picture-perfect, an undiscovered talent about to go viral. Picardie had her fame arranged at a grand internet auction of Chantal Merlin to fashion houses, modelling agencies, journals, magazines, webcams, individual clients around the world. Such was the promise of stardom, the share of the spoils, that she never thought to question Dani’s background, or motives.Her cot was an insult, the room tiny, but she could live with her minor discomforts in the pursuit of wealth. There was little else for her to do at the beach house but clean, launder, serve food, and shop. Other than please her.‘Perfect!’ Dani affirmed, ‘Have you prepared our picnic for this afternoon?’Chantal crossed her arms behind her back and counted her fingers.Ham, brie, fromage bleu, pâte, anchovies, eggs, baguette, olives, vine tomatoes, grapes. Oh, and champagne! Mustn’t forget the champagne!‘Yes! Everything is ready.’‘I think I shall wear a dress today, Dani,’ she added, pronouncing her name darn-e as in a curse or mend in a holed sock, ‘If I may? Please? It would be so lovely to wear my dress.’Dani’s cheeks sagged, like the cheeks of a face struck with severe Bell’s Palsy,‘Of course, Cheri, but be careful not to get your hem wet when we go rowing.’After she had changed out of her swimsuit, Chantal assembled the picnic hamper and loaded it into the boot of the artist’s splendid pea-green, yellow-wheeled, Citroën 2CV. They set off in high spirits, Dani driving carefully round the hairpin bends, taking a narrow, winding track, high up into the vertiginous no-man’s land.Every so often, they spotted a memorial headstone standing in the straw-dry grass by the roadside; marking the place where unsuspecting tourists inadvertently motored too close to the edge and tumbled down the steep slope. Occasionally, when the road veered to the right, Chantal caught sight of the acres of charcoaled trees decimated by the frequent forest fires. She thought of the flume Dani pointed out to her, burning on the inaccessible mountainside, their eternal burning flame.After an hour, the road widened and wound downhill, through shady olive and lemon groves, to a line of pine trees. Dani pulled over, drove down a dusty track, and parked the 2CV in the shade. Chantal carried the hamper down to a short strip of brown sand, punctuated with dead cones, and spread the blanket. They picnicked under the pines dressed in wide-brim straw hats to keep the sun out of their eyes. The artist didn’t drink.

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