Backstage with Dorothy Black

Heat rises from the black planks. We cast off in this thick afternoon and the river gives up nothing, only sun and the slow slap of water against hull. Dorothy peels her top away and the weight of her breasts comes free in sunlight. Sweat tracks the inner curves, makes them shine. She leans back against the rail with no effort to cover anything. Tour boats slide past thirty feet to starboard; the passengers turn their heads, mouths half-open, but she only smiles and spreads her legs a little wider. I step between her thighs, push her swim skirt to the side, and slide two fingers straight into her. She is already soaked. A water-skier cuts behind us, spray arcing into the air; Dorothy rolls her hips against my hand, making it clear she wants more and that the boats behind us matter less than the next thrust. My cock is out in seconds. She grabs it, strokes once, twice, then guides me in until the whole length disappears. The boat rocks. Each push knocks the wine glasses into a shallow chime on the table. Dorothy’s nipples bead tight, dark against the sun, and I take one between my teeth while her cunt grips me harder. Every time a boat passes we give them something to remember: her tits bouncing, my hands full of her ass, the wet slap of skin under the wide blue sky.