Sofia pulled the window up and leaned out. She was immediately engulfed in the honeysuckle scent of the garden, so thick it was almost a visible haze. She could hear the splashes of Anabelle swimming lengths in the pool. There wasn't much of a breeze, but it would take the edge off the heat in the room. Or at least make it less stagnant.

She flopped down on the bed, feeling that summer afternoon lethargy. She should work or something. But there wasn't really anything that needed doing, and she wasn't sure she had the energy right now. Maybe she could even nap for a bit. But not under the covers, it was too hot. But she would find it hard to sleep without the feeling of a sheet over her, she always did. And it would be odd to nap in the day time, she had barely had a daytime nap since nursery school when all the children had to lie down after lunch, even if they weren't sleepy.

Her dress was sticking to her. Without getting up she squirmed it off. It felt surprisingly sensual, maybe even slightly sexual; the feeling of the cotton sliding over her body, that little catch as the material escaped over her nipples, the gradual revelation of her pale limbs. Becoming totally naked, totally exposed.

She looked down at herself. She didn't always like to look at herself. Sometimes she looked down at her body or caught a glimpse at her nakedness in the mirror when changing and felt some pang of revulsion. But sometimes, like now, it looked beautiful. Narcissistic? But why not? Self-love, and all that crap. And men liked it too. Which actress was it that Mark had said she could body double for the morning after their first time? What a weird compliment.

Toby liked it too. Yesterday evening in the kitchen, he'd definitely been checking her out when she was loading the plates in the dishwasher after dinner. His eyes had been roving over her. Weird how she could tell even with her back to him. He'd been looking at her bum. Did he like her bum? It was smaller than Anabelle's. Was that good or bad? Did he like Anabelle's round bum? Anabelle's bum did look good, particularly in that one tight pair of jeans she had. It wasn't so big. She actually wouldn't mind looking like Anabelle. Guys definitely liked women who look like Anabelle.

Toby found her attractive. She could tell from the way he smiled when he came into a room she was in; it was a genuine smile, not a social smile. It looked like it made him happy to see her. Sure, he was nice and liked her in a friendly way. But she could tell.

Without exactly deciding to Sofia found that she was running her hand over her body. Not with any particular purpose, just enjoying the feeling of her hand grazing across her belly, down over the inside of her thighs, up the outside and almost underneath, across her sides of her bum and hips, across her chest.

Did Anabelle know that Toby liked her body? Had Anabelle noticed Toby looking at her. It wouldn't be nice if Anabelle was jealous of her. They were friends, she'd always been so kind and it would be even worse now, living in her house. She might be rude. She might create some row and send her away and then she'd have to give up on the project at the centre or pay for a room nearby. She didn't have the money for that.

But Toby was affectionate to Anabelle. They were actually really cute together. So maybe she wouldn't be jealous. Maybe even if she saw him looking she'd just tease her husband about it. After all, it wasn't the kind of thing that would ever come to anything. They were barely ever alone together. Pretty much only the times they'd played tennis. She'd seen him looking then too. Not surprising, her legs did look good in that pleated skirt.

He was good looking too. Manly jaw. And she felt quite small when he was close to her. Like when he'd handed her that glass of wine, and smiled down at her. He'd definitely been closer than he needed to be. But he wasn't creepy. Imagine living in a house with a couple where the creep husband was hitting on you; making smarmy comments or squeezing past to try and get in a not-so-subtle grope. Disgusting. Toby wasn't like that. He wouldn't do anything like that. Unless he knew it was wanted.

Had he ever thought about her whilst masturbating? Had he ever thought about her whilst fucking Anabelle? Anabelle was loud. He must have something. Last night, it had been so loud. God, it had felt like they were never going to stop. What had it looked like? What position had they been in?

Sofia was damp. She could feel the heat of her sex even amidst the enveloping heat of the room. That musky aroused smell. It sent a kaleidoscope of images and memories rushing across her mind. In her bedroom at home with Matt on top of her, almost squashing her, clumsily maneuvering his thick cock with one hand to get it inside her. Mixed up with the smell of petrol and leather of Anthony's ridiculous car, parked up, the strap still cutting across her chest as he twisted in the driver seat, his finger coaxing inside her, until she was thrusting up off her seat against it. Or mixed with that unmistakably Mediterranean piney scent drifting through the window in Greece; that was Anton again, he'd groaned, deep groans, but somehow androgynous, as she'd ridden him on one of the twin beds.

She let her fingernails trace a path down across her belly and over the smooth mound of her pubis. When she placed her fingers on the slickness of her spread lips, the jolt was electric, not the throbbing pleasure of orgasm, but that knife-like intensity of a first touch. And that spastic pulse up the spine, chest bucking forward, head slung back, almost levitating off the mattress for a moment.

Had Toby been fucking Anabelle from behind -- her ass stuck up behind her to take his cock into her, her cheek resting on the bed, jaw slack with moaning. Or had she been on all fours, her neck bent almost painfully back, a great handful of her hair pulled back by his rough grip. That round ass pressing back involuntarily, urging him to thrust harder and deeper. Had he spanked her? Did he call her names? "Slut" - "whore" - "bitch."

Sofia's index finger was circling the nub of her clitoris, others were spreading her lips, an indistinct field of nerves sparking from the stray contact of others. Sometimes her finger would dart down to the entrance of her pussy, sometimes, briefly, she'd impale herself on it, feeling her tightness, beckoning against those pleasurable ridges - resonant, deep, pleasure - before returning to the high notes of her clitoris. Her other hand was almost mauling her breasts, now kneading a handful of the sensitive flesh, now index finger and thumb pulling and releasing a small pink nipple, beams of pain-pleasure that accentuated the rising flood in her sex. Sonia's eyes were wide open and beyond focus; head tossing, the world a blur of colours and shapes that seemed somehow part of the pleasure. She writhed on the bed, her thick hair a tangling mess as she tossed her head. Another spasm of pleasure pulsed through her, so intense that she almost felt like she was drowning. Her eyes closed, submerging her even deeper into her fantasy.

Did Toby think of her? Did he imagine her whilst he fucked his wife? Did he imagine it was her pussy he was taking? Her bum his belly slapped against as he thrust all the way inside? Her throat he choked with his big hands? Her throat he choked - her throat - his cock inside -- filling her -- filling her with d

She was soaring fast towards a climax. She moaned, her eyes opened and her body went suddenly, paralytically rigid. The adrenaline hit was overwhelming and instantaneous, like being suddenly thrown overboard into icy water. Toby was outside her window, not moving, looking through it directly at her. Their eyes met. He started guiltily, and was gone, pacing rapidly round the house towards the back garden.

Sonia didn't move for a minute. Didn't cover herself up. Didn't even take her hand away from her sex, still very wet but suddenly feeling almost cold beneath her fingers. Frozen. She heard the voices of Toby and Anabelle from the back garden. She heard laughter. Were they laughing about her, about what he'd seen her doing?

Those were Toby's heavy steps coming into the house and then a tap running in the kitchen. She leapt up, picking up her dress that was now lying in a heap on the floor, pulled it back on hurriedly and flung open her door. She felt a profound seething rage. Who did that bastard think he was? How dare he stand there looking at her in her room? Fucking pervert!

She found him in the kitchen, face submerged under the kitchen tap. He turned and saw her. And he said "hi" to her. He said "hi". Clearly the approved fucking greeting after you've pervved on someone through the window of their room. He might as well have raised an eyebrow and said: "finished then?" Suddenly she was crying. Damn it, he'd think she was sad. She wasn't sad, she was angry. Of course she was angry. Her privacy had been violated. She had been violated.

"Sofia, I'm sorry. It was a total accident. I just came round the house and there you were."

Sorry? Sorry and making excuses. Pity and self-justifying crap. She didn't want it. "You were staring at me! I was in my own room and I was naked and you were staring at me. Hiding in shadows, looking at me and getting off - is that it? I'm your wife's cousin you fucking pervert!"

Suddenly his face was red and filled with a malevolent nastiness that she'd never have imagined he could express. There was nothing he wasn't capable of. Nothing he might not do. Do to her. She wasn't safe. He lunged towards her. She swung her hand to hit him, to keep him away from her, but he was too quick. His hand grabbed her wrist with a violence that was squeezing all the blood out of her hand.

"How dare you speak to me like that? Getting off with the curtains open so anyone could see? Were you trying to put on a show for me? Tempt me? Did you think that would be funny? Are you trying to fuck with my marriage, you stupid little whore?!"

All that blood in his cheeks seemed to drain away before her eyes. He looked deathly pale. "Sofia. I'm sorry, I didn't mean that."

He was very close. He looked huge and pale and ashamed. She could smell his light cologne and see the faint shadow of day old stubble on his cheeks. This man - this almost-stranger, wealthy, married to her cousin - beautiful, elegant, so kind to her, floating, now, in the pristine pool just outside - had watched her masturbate. And he had called her a whore. She was a whore. She'd masturbated in a ground floor room in someone else's house without even bothering to close the curtains.

He still had her by the wrist. If he pushed her against the kitchen wall now, would she let him fuck her? Be his whore. Let him fuck her like some slut and then go back out to swim with his wife like nothing had happened, leaving her to walk back to her little room with his cum running down her thighs under her dress.

"Please let go of my wrist!"

Her arm fell, but she still seemed unable to move. He was aroused, of course he was. His cock hard. But he looking her in the eyes, with a look that was almost tender. She found herself reaching up. She was going to reach up and kiss him. But half way through the gesture she checked herself and merely touched his chest for a moment. What was wrong with her? It was almost like she was asking him to do as he pleased with her. To use her.

Sonia turned quickly and walked away, back to her room. She felt overwhelmed. Humiliated, dirty, painfully aroused. She grabbed a towel that was slung over the chair by her desk and headed to the bathroom. She fell to her knees in front of the toilet dry retching, vomiting but with nothing but air coming up. Eventually it subsided.

Sofia stepped into the shower and turned it on full blast. She held it so the hot jets of water drummed against her clitoris, and penetrated herself with two fingers as deeply as she could, rubbing back and forth over her g-spot. After less than a minute she came, silently, but so hard that she almost fell to the floor again, waves of pleasure crashing through her whole torso. Afterwards she felt shaky and her sex felt almost raw, but still possessed by a feverish arousal. It felt impossible to relieve, like an itch in a phantom limb.

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