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and now?”
“Please! But first, tell me your name?”
“Jaime.”
“Amanda.”
Jaime pushed Amanda up against the side of the pool and pulling her bikini aside, thrust his cock into her pussy. Reaching down to spread her labia, she helped him to cram his manly member up inside her.
“I’m not a slut,” she protested, allowing his tongue into his mouth. “But it’s summer, I’m 18 - ” she added, clamping one of his hands to her bottom under the bikini. “ - And you’re such a pretty man.”
“Tell me how you want it,” he murmured against her throat.
“Just like you’re doing, slow and deep,” she urged him, pressing her bosom hard against his chest as he thrust into her under the water. She closed her eyes, but he kept his open to watch for intruders. This went on for two or three minutes before she moaned against his ear with a full body shudder and the spasmodic clenching of her vagina heralded her climax. He pulled out of her a second before his ejaculation and thus spared her a month of anxiety.
They held each other close for a couple of minutes, shared a final kiss and then he got out of the water and disappeared into one of the dressing cabanas. Amanda backstroked up and down the length of the pool until the throbbing in her clitoris began to ebb.
As she switched over from the pool to the sauna she told herself, “Who am I kidding? I am a slut.”
On the following Sunday afternoon, Pamela invited Amanda to come over to her house for lunch and to watch Pandora’s Box, which Amanda had never seen. They were sitting in a deep, butter soft camel colored leather sofa in Pamela’s bedroom suite, slowly savoring a simple meal of French rolls, cheese, fruit and wine while mesmerized by the image of Louise Brooks on the large screen opposite.
“You should cut your hair like that,” said Amanda to Pamela of Lulu’s shingle bob.
“Ambrose wouldn’t like it,” said Pamela reflexively. Her new husband was a stylistic perfectionist who clearly preferred long hair on younger women.
“Don’t you like giving him excuses to spank you?”
“No. He spanks too hard when he’s irritated.”
Amanda knew that.
“You would look adorable. It would change everything,” said Amanda “I’ll go with you and cut my hair as well,” Amanda offered impulsively.
“Are you serious?”
“Of course I am. I’m just dating a jock and he couldn’t care less about my hair as long as I let him fondle my breasts. I could get an Annie Lennox cut,” said the fair-haired, soon-to-be sophomore.
“Are you insane? Cut off a beautiful head of straight, long, naturally blonde hair?”
“It’ll grow back. And it’ll be so much easier to take care of.”
Pamela looked at Louise Brooks.
“I see what you’re saying. That cut would suit my face,” Pamela said decisively.
They decided to meet on their next afternoon off, which was the following Tuesday. First they lunched at the Café in Bartlett’s, then walked out into the village. Ambrose Bartlett happened to be at the window of his office three stories above Main Street, Woodbridge when the girls exited the building. His heart contracted with a mixture of anxiety and excitement as he noticed his wife with the girl he had been so enraptured with earlier in the year. Why were they together? Where were they going?
They entered the village salon, each with long hair past their shoulders, Pamela’s silky jet black and Amanda’s ash blonde, and exited two hours later respectively sporting a geometric bob and a razor short crop. It was a late summer afternoon and the street was brightly dotted with tourists. Amanda was curious as to whether men would look at her with the same interest as formerly, when her hair was luxuriantly long. The first male to walk past them who was not the head of a vacationing family was a strikingly handsome young man in his early twenties, accompanied by two good looking girls.
“Did you see that Pamela?” Amanda whispered. “It was like the head of Ian Astbury on Danzig’s body.”
“That was Raphael Price,” Pamela whispered back.
As though he had heard his name, the tall, muscular young man in the low-rider jeans and white tee was suddenly behind them, his girls behind him.
“Excuse me, ladies,” he said, extending a strong, long fingered hand with a card. “You look like you need to go to an after hours party at an art gallery tonight.” And then, he was gone, leading one girl with each hand. Amanda turned to look at them and noted that one of the girls had a long, thick, light russet French braid down her back and the other had long, rippling, shiny, jet black Mediterranean hair down hers. Both were slender, with tiny waists and slim hipped torsos in cut off shorts and ribbed tank tops, their feet in high cork platform sandals. They’d passed by too quickly for Amanda to retain a complete imprint of their faces but she had registered two flawlessly clear complexions, one ruddy, the other olive toned, behind their sunglasses.
Amanda looked down at the card. It said Raphael Gallery with a Woodbridge village address. She showed it to Pamela who said, “That’s right, I just remembered, there’s a showing of Pascal Robbins' photos there tonight.”
Amanda got a little thrill, remembering the handsome photographer who had shot the fashion spread for the Damaris shop in Boston that Amanda and Pamela had posed for in the winter. She had liked Mr. Robbins a great deal and had seen him around Random Point recently as well. He had, in fact, come into the antiques shop while she was tending the counter to ask her to pose for him that summer if she would.
“He shot a whole book of my pictures a few years back,” said Pamela, “I wonder if any of the photos will be for sale at the showing.”
“Should we go?”
“Oh yes!” said Pamela.
“But what’s this rock star of a gallery proprietor like?” Amanda asked, deftly leading Pamela into an ice cream parlor.
“Are you serious? Ice cream?” Pamela tried to pull back in horror.
“We were so good through our haircuts. We didn’t even cry. Don’t you think we deserve a treat?” Amanda asked, pulling Pamela by the hand deep into the cool, sweet smelling shop.
“I hope you’re not going to be a bad influence on me,” Pamela said, reluctantly ordering a cherry vanilla wafer cone.
“How late is an after hours party?” asked Amanda.
“Ten, I should think.”
“Won’t Mr. Bartlett mind your not being home?”
“I don’t think he’ll notice. He pays very little attention to me,” sighed Pamela, fascinated by her own reflection in the mirror behind the ice cream bar with the silky, well cut bob. “As to Raphael Price, I do know he just moved here from New York a few months ago. His family owns half the Cape. And I think he bought a house on Shadow Lane pretty close to Hugo’s.”
“Is he married? Who were those girls?”
“I think they work for him at the gallery. I’ve seen the three of them shopping at the store together.”
“Oh, I wish I hadn’t cut my hair now!” Amanda almost sobbed, regarding her Jean Seberg cut in the mirror. “Did you see how long their hair was?”
“I begged you not to get it so short,” Pamela exclaimed. Amanda accepted a butter pecan wafer cone from the teenaged counter boy, who smiled at her with ardent admiration.
“Your hair looks great,” he said sincerely.
“Take my picture,” Amanda said to Pamela, handing Pamela her phone and licking her ice cream