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Page 4.
 I must tell about Lorena's extremely horny moment with Jane.
It was nine a.m. and we were sitting around in the great Sun Room, whose French doors open on a green lawn to the south side (sun exposure), with rolling lawns, a bushy labyrinth, and a hidden swimming pool where Dashka and Helmut got to be close last night.
We were waiting for my production assistant, Mina Palmarino, to return from the little airstrip at the other end of Lipa with the sound man, Tony Alfano. Our camera man, Frad from Kingston, Jamaica, was impatiently puttering with his equipment. The light kept getting richer as the minutes and hours ticked by—Frad prefers to shoot in the crisp dawn light, so we all have to go to bed very early (argh) and rise with the cocks, and our cocks rise with us as we shiver over black coffee and stale pastries while the sun struggles out of bed. That was now hours ago, and, if the cast were not so good-natured and used to adversity, they'd be grumbling that they might as well have gotten more sleep. Frad, we should know, is a tall, wiry, fussy, not-laid-back man who left his Rasta dreads behind long ago, along with his failed reggae base-playing career. Even in his casual Mediterranean tourist shorts and sandals, Frad looks like he is wearing an invisible three-piece suit. Talk about anally retentive, he is a detail man or mon. I tell him he belongs on the London Stock Exchange, but Frad non-humorously dismisses the idea—de gorls, mon, de gorls—because he prefers being an erotica camera guy.
The sun grew hot and filled the room with light. Most of the white shades were down and glowing with a golden-amber light. The bay windows on either side of the doorway were open on the sides, letting in a hot, fragrant wind loaded with the scents of mown grass and those huge limewood trees that give the island its name (no relation to citrus). The major export from this tiny island is honey. There are two kinds of honey, thanks to the busy swarms of honey bees that fill the air over Lipa's cliffs and meadows. One is limewood honey, from tree blossoms, and the other is sage honey, very rare and expensive, gathered mostly on slender beach strips around the Mediterranean. Did I mention that Mina's cunt smells fragrant like sage honey? I'll get to that in a few minutes.
Lorena is busty, with a perpetually tan Mediterranean complexion and chiseled features. She kept giving Jane these glowing looks. Living in Florence, she could have plenty of tan ass around the Med, male or female since she is bi, but Jane is special on the island. Jane is a rare (here, exotic) blonde Nordic beauty with skin as pale as snow, and long legs under an undulating torso with small, pink-tipped breasts. We all noticed late yesterday afternoon, after Jane arrived and went for a dip in the lawn pool, that her thick bush glowed golden in the late sunlight with water pearling in its curls. Seeing her, Frad ran his long black fingers over his tightly cropped kinky hair, and muttered something like "If I let my hair grow, and dye it blonde, I could stick my head up there and blend right in."
At the pool that previous evening as well, Helmut and Dashka gravitated together in the water. Dashka looked a bit miffed when Helmut's cock popped up from the water, as if radar-driven, when Jane strode from the water, like Venus, bending as she sought her towel—exposing from behind a pair of generously hanging labia stuck together amid stray, trailing cunt hairs.
Lorena was heard to mutter something like "I could suck on those." Both Helmut and Lorena keep glancing at Jane this morning. Lorena is more forward, since she saw how the pool water twirled from her bird's nest as she climbed from the water. Of course Jane knew Lorena kept glancing at her. I'm sure she is used to being stared after with lustful, raking glances by men and women alike. I think Jane is mainly straight and only does girls for the camera. Jane and Helmut began to eyeball each other this morning, as well.
It's all good—they needed to warm up for the shoot. As laid back as the atmosphere is on Lipa, in the Villa Venusia, the air gets charged with these sex ions twirling around like grainy dust motes, establishing a baseline horny mood that gets into your coffee or tea and into everyone's pants or panties as well. We are as one with the birds and the bees, not to mention a million butterflies that zone out over Lipa's hypnotic meadows under that heavy blue sky.
In the golden light, Frad twists his lens caps and makes other motions that could be mistaken as Freudian, while he eyeballs the women (and the guy) he is about to capture on video. That's his specialty, his gift in life—creating art where others might dully see mechanical, gross porn.
Dashka, our local Croatian honey, hangs back in her lounge chair. Dashka reminds me of lush, remote, unexplored territory hidden in lavish dark-red hair that cascades down her back and shoulders. She has a quietly intense way of lowering her full forehead and staring with eyes as grayish-blue as the Croatia's snow-capped mountains. She is the silent, reserved one. I have only met her briefly, on a shoot last year, but she strikes me as one of those women who are spring-loaded and full of surprises—like later, I'll mention, when Helmut's dick would not stand up. Dashka knew how to take care of that, as we'll see, when all else failed.
The English girl, Jane, as we waited for Mina and Tony, decided the flowers around the room needed watering. She found a white enamel watering can, and clopped on her cork heels from one to another of Madame Lussec's many flowers and plants around the huge room.
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Copyright © 2019 by Max Ready. All Rights Reserved.
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