Afterwards, Amy would remember the precise moment at which she plucked up the courage to take Mariola to bed. It came with a swallow, too many – or perhaps just enough – of the wedding Rioja. It was a bit cheap and over-oaked, but it cut through the bright haze of Prosecco like a firm hand. A firm hand taking her by the chin, and a rough voice saying: “Look, look at that.” And the firm hungry masculine ghost of the wine made her look, look across the teeming dark room, to Mariola, a dark flame in a silver sheath dress.Sipping the Rioja, Amy let the wine fill her with dark flavours, the rich scents of summer nights and dark fruit. She watched Mariola move. Her face was a marvel, strong, fierce. Light danced in her eyes and on her bright teeth. Shadows at her ear and throat showed off her fine jaw. She imagined the strength of the woman holding her down, that powerful mouth at work. The feel of her body, it’s curves and its angles, her taste. Warmth spilt across Amy’s belly, and thighs and tickles and tingles danced down her legs. Amy felt herself fill and flower, her flesh moving. Uncurling. Blooming against the soft grasp of her knickers. Decision made, she tore her gaze from her target, began to search the crowd for her plus-one.Sam was babbling happily at the bridesmaids when she found him, guileless face flushed with the feast. He leaned over the two girls in their silly pale dresses like harebells and listened with all of his six foot four frame and his broad shoulders. In their luminous eyes and their quick nibbles of a lip and the faint bloom of perspiration on the domes of their festive breasts, she could read their intent. Their willingness.Oh no, ladies, not tonight.She took his arm and turned him and gave the bridesmaids the face of a blade, all beaming smile and fuck-you dead eyes and they blanched and retreated as she whisked him away. She took his elbow – lord the strength in that arm – and took him away into the outside, the cool mist of the river and the puddles of table-lights in the rose-hung garden.Away down the silvered and dewy grass were older unlit tables, tucked under overgrown hedges. Dark, private spaces – some already full of gasps and the whisper of zips. Amy could feel her blood sing as she drew Sam on, found a table and made him sit down. She saw his frown, all befuddled with drink, so she sat in his lap and kissed him messily for a while. She was pleased by the pressure he made on her thigh. She stood slowly and drew a firm fingernail down his imprisoned length and laughed at the faint mewl of complaint.“Sam,” she said. Her solemnity silenced him, and he grew still, a dog waiting for a blow.“I need to ask you something. A favour.” She cleared her throat as he unsurely replied.“Sure, Ames – anything, um..”It was more difficult than she expected, here, with his cock just there and this table and nervousness and drink and lust and maybe she should just fuck him now and forget Mariola.A shimmer of silver in the mist-hung trees and a voice like a rusty gate hung with briar roses.“Amy,” the voice crooned, “I thought that was you. Long time, no see.” And out of the dark, she materialised, as sleek as a fish rising out of the deep. Muscular, silvery, lithe and fragrant. Mariola. A walking sex fantasy.Amy woke slowly, the flickering frames of her dream dissipating in the white silence of the morning. White bed, white sheets, the harbour sky white hazed behind half-drawn white curtains. In the bright mist strong shapes. Hard dark strokes of a bed frame and windows and among them, tumbled in the white bed-billows the dips and troughs and ridges, the sine-wave strength of Mariola. As her hand unbidden reached to stroke that naked flank, the warm swell of exquisite arse, Amy remembered snapshots.Mariola glimmering in the cool dark, silver dress a second skin, scales glittering, eyes aflame and bright white teeth.Those eyes sliding over her face, her neck, and the swift tug and tightening, the knurling in her own nipples, answering the hard peaks that shimmered through that dress.An hour, or two of talking there at the dark table, the slow dance of conversation, the slow dawn of the idea on Sam’s frank, sweet face. The awestruck disbelief when Mariola cupped a firm hand around the base of her skull and, tilting her fine head sideways, drew Amy in for a kiss.The cold wine, fragrant in Mariola’s mouth. Cool tongue on hers.Back indoors, the sandwich of them, all three, clumsy, giggling, dirty dancing. The hard club of Sam’s straining cock along her thigh.And Mariola, Mariola, Mariola…“Forget your shitty hotel, lovelies. I’ve a place down by the harbour. It’s nice.”The taxi ride. Fingers everywhere, they pinned her between them, eyes front, outwardly prim. But her skirt pulled high and out of view. Strong fingers rubbing and
