Page 44 of Strap In

One week bleeds into two – Peter is delighted for her to continue holidaying.

And her words are only halfway out when Ava, who has made no mention of heading home, agrees they may as well stay a full fortnight.

The Baird family’s generosity is easily supplemented by a trip to the Co-op, their clothes laundered in the washing machine and dried in bright sunshine.

The weather, that fickle temptress, picks up just when Jean accepts summer is over.

Sweating and laughing they climb Arthur’s Seat, Ava snapping a picture of them pink-cheeked at the summit.

In fact, true to Millennial form, she has documented almost the entirety of their trip.

Amidst the nature shots and selfies, there are candid photos Jean hadn’t been aware of her taking until Ava messages them.

Jean from behind, gazing at the island, hair gleaming and rippling like fire.

Jean lying on her front atop a towel – though her eyes are concealed by dark lenses, she wears an enigmatic little smile as she reads her book.

Jean laughing as the champagne fizzes open, eyes still wide from the cork popping – a sound that’s always louder than she expects.

She tries to sneak a few photos in retaliation, but Ava always catches her, giggling or beaming at the camera while she poses.

The only time Jean manages to capture her unawares is when Ava sleeps, a curl peeping out from beneath her bonnet, one hand tucked under her cheek like a child.

But that photo feels too personal to share, even with its subject, so Jean keeps it to herself.

The days stack up, one adventure after another. And Jean doesn’t recognise herself when she looks in the mirror – this carefree woman, tanned and freckled and always smiling.

On the night before their last day, Jean makes reservations at a restaurant Alasdair had recommended for its seafood, caught fresh and local – rather swanky for a communist, though Jean had refrained from saying so.

Jean decides it’s now or never for the dress.

She had bought it spontaneously in the January sale, yet never worn it – with the vivid henna red of her hair, it had felt too much, the silky material shining bright as a ruby.

Ignoring her misgivings, she wiggles into the sheath, zipping it up the side and applying a smoky lavender eyeshadow.

With her lips pillar box red and hair brushed smooth round her shoulders, there’s even a touch of pin-up glamour.

Before she can doubt herself, Jean retrieves her clutch and steps out into the evening sun.

Ava turns as the door swings shut behind her. And those dark eyes pop round as saucers as she takes in Jean’s ensemble, scanning her from head to toe. ‘Holy shit. Did you… dress up as…?’

‘Jessica Rabbit.’ She twirls, enjoying Ava’s newfound inability to close her jaw. ‘Minus the sequins and improbable anatomy.’

‘I… like this version way better.’

‘You do?’ Jean bites the inside of her lip.

‘Oh yeah.’ Ava steps closer, tracing the contour of Jean’s hipbone through the thin material.

‘As a kid it didn’t occur to me that it was problematic, that glorification of unrealistic female beauty standards.

I was also quite a few years off working out just how much I enjoy real curves. And, well…’

A pulse hammers against Jean’s throat. Her voice is scarcely more than a whisper. ‘What?’

Ava tucks a lock of hair behind Jean’s ear, fingertips brushing against the lobe. And though her cheeks colour, she looks Jean dead in the eye: ‘The reality of you is so much better than any fantasy, Jean Howard.’

Jean stands up on tiptoe, no mean feat in these heels, pressing a kiss to Ava’s lips.

She sighs as Ava’s arms wrap around her back, half steadying and half claiming, then Ava’s tongue slips into her mouth.

Jean’s fingers knot in Ava’s hair, then somehow she’s pressed between Ava and the door and they’re tumbling back inside.

Of course, Ava doesn’t let her fall. No, Ava scoops Jean up as if she weighs nothing more than a bag of feathers and carries her through to the bedroom, stumbling only when Jean’s lips find her neck. Ever so gentle, she sets Jean down on their unmade bed.

But Ava doesn’t join her, scrubbing away the lipstick smeared across her mouth. She’s breathing hard. ‘Fuck, I want you so much. But what about dinner?’

‘Screw dinner,’ Jean says, deadly serious. ‘I need you to go and fetch that… item from your bag and get in this bed with me. Right now.’

Ava’s lips twitch, a devilish glint in her eyes. ‘You know when you say item , it sounds way dirtier than asking me to get the strap, right? Same with arrangement instead of fuck buddies.’

Jean’s cheeks are surely a perfect match for her dress and hair, hot enough to fry an egg on. ‘Less talking, more doing.’

‘Yes ma’am,’ Ava says, divesting of her clothes in record time. She’s never shy about her body, never flaunting but never trying to hide it either, and the sight of all that smooth brown skin has Jean chewing on her lip, the sheets knotted tight beneath her fingers.

Then Ava’s buckling the harness around her hips, and it’s just as well Jean’s draped across the bed because there’s no way her knees could support her.

Ava grins as she approaches, so sure of the effect she has on Jean.

But she doesn’t pounce or pull at Jean’s clothes.

The mattress shifts as she climbs onto the bed, careful not to lean on Jean’s dress or hair as she draws near.

Then Ava cups Jean’s cheek as if she’s holding something rare and precious, leaning down to kiss her.

Between them the dildo presses firm against Jean’s belly.

And Jean melts against her, the sweetest surrender; gives herself over to what Ava has planned, a passion all the more urgent for its restraint.

Ava’s hands trace the topography of Jean’s body, sliding over the silk like water. Between the whisper of her dress and Ava’s caress, Jean’s practically purring her contentment. The way Ava’s peppering tiny kisses across her face, she feels not simply desired, but wanted. Cherished.

Yet when Jean slides her hands down from those strong shoulders to the fastening of Ava’s sports bra, eager to do some exploring of her own, Ava pulls back. She takes Jean’s hands, kisses both palms, and sets them down on the mattress either side of Jean’s head.

‘You don’t want…?’

Ava shakes her head, thumb caressing the tender hollow of Jean’s injured wrist. ‘I don’t want anything distracting me from how beautiful you look in that dress, or what I’m about to do to you while you’re wearing it. Is that alright?’

Jean nods, breath quickening. And Ava’s eyes are drawn irresistibly towards the swell of her breasts.

Jean’s nipples peak the smooth fabric, her desire apparent, but still Ava will not be rushed.

She nuzzles at Jean’s armpit, a place its owner had never previously considered to have any great erotic potential – but want throbs low and persistent in her belly.

Ava feels it too, pupil and iris indistinguishable as she unzips the dress just a fraction, knuckles brushing against bare skin.

The dress puckers at Jean’s chest; just enough that she can reach in to cup a breast. Ava flicks at a nipple, catching the tender bud with the edge of her thumbnail until Jean’s breath is ragged. Anticipation sharpens to a dull ache between her thighs.

She shifts on the bed, wrapping her legs tight around Ava’s waist, only the thin scrap of Jean’s underwear keeping the dildo from slipping inside her. The pressure is an exquisite torture. As Jean rocks her hips, Ava smiles against her mouth. Says: ‘Easy. I’ve got you.’

Then Ava’s reaching between them – not to dispose of Jean’s underwear, but rather push it to one side. Running a testing finger through Jean’s slickness.

Jean gasps, parting to the touch, and Ava slips that finger into her mouth.

Before Jean can complain at the loss of contact, Ava’s shifting.

Sliding home, deep inside her. Jean cries out, lips coated in the taste of her own desire.

Ava’s hips undulate, so slow and steady that Jean is sure she’ll go mad with it.

And yet it’s a relentless pleasure, one thrust melting liquid smooth into the next until Jean’s quivering in Ava’s arms.

And all the while Ava watches her, drinking in every flicker and spasm that crosses Jean’s face. Stroking her hair, her back, her thighs with the dress rucked up round them. And Jean couldn’t move even if she wanted to, caught on this unbearable edge of ecstasy.

Passivity has never appealed to Jean. In or out of the bedroom, she has no interest in being dominated. But the way Ava’s touching her, gliding in and out of her, is infinitely closer to worship. Jean grips at her shoulder, the pressure mounting to an intolerable high.

And in the moment before she comes, it occurs to Jean: Ava isn’t taking her. Ava isn’t dicking her down. Ava isn’t even fucking her. She’s making love to me.

Then orgasm obliterates every coherent thought. There’s only Ava’s arms around her, Ava’s lips brushing against her ear as she whispers: ‘You’re so perfect when you lose control.’

Ava doesn’t let up even as Jean shudders; forehead shining with effort, she draws out Jean’s climax with every stroke. Ava bites her lip until blood beads on the skin, a tremor running through her shoulders. Still she maintains that perfect rhythm, driving into Jean to the very hilt.

Only as her thigh twitches beneath Ava’s grasp does Jean understand that she’s coming again, coming apart at the very seams. And this time she is taking Ava with her.

Those dark eyes roll back in her head until Jean glimpses the whites, a spasm running through her spine.

And in that moment Jean can’t tell where her own body ends, where Ava’s begins.