I made my way along the dock at the edge of the lake—heading, for the first time in a while, towards nowhere in particular.



Nine months out of the year, I taught classes on the side at Burbage University in Massachusetts, where I was spending my third year as a literature grad student. This year had been cut short by my father's heart attack,



After I spent three weeks by his side in the downtown hospital in Boston, my mother and aunt finally sent me away against my wishes, and ordered me to get some rest. Dad, when he could speak coherently, sided with them.



After a call to a friend, they'd managed to get our old lakeside cabin in Norfolk reserved for a week. I hadn't stayed in the place since a summer twelve years ago, when I was twelve years old, but now I had it to myself for a week. I had an icebox full of cold ham, a few bottles of beer, my books, and a week's worth of free time to kill.



In winter, thick blankets of snow covered the landscape in mountains of downy white fluff. In summer, the green of the trees and the patchwork colors of wildflowers were like an oil painting. Now it was spring—somewhere in the middle of all this change. The lake was just warm enough for swimming, and the breeze was pleasantly cool.



Before I'd made my way back from Burbage, I'd been teaching a first-year class in Shakespeare. In idle moments, sometimes I still called upon memorized speeches when I needed something to occupy my mind. Now, looking over the lake, I flashed back to The Tempest.



"Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves," I softly whispered to myself.



I looked over the sand at the shore, and up at an inky blue sky smattered with stars.



"And ye that on the sand with printless foot do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him when he comes back," I continued.



I made my way to the end of the dock. Then, taking in the slivers of reflected moonlight on the water's still surface, I saw a shadow come into view, treading water just beyond the light. There was a splash, and a head broke the surface. In the light of the moon, I made out pale skin, red lips, full cheeks, and neck-length hair the color of aged red wine, wet and slicked back against a cat-like face.



For a moment, I couldn't speak. But my mind flashed to Much Ado About Nothing now.



A prettier piece of flesh than any that is seen in Messina, I thought.



But the woman, whoever she was, spoke before I even parted my lips to address her.



"Hey there," she said. "Good night for stargazing?"



"I..."



"Take you by surprise?" she asked coyly. One side of her mouth curved into a mocking smile and she raised an eyebrow. "Maybe you should have hid in the bushes."



"I didn't know you were out here!" I insisted. "I wasn't—"



"Shhh, hold on..." she cut me off. "Let me get a good look at you. Then we'll talk."



The water sloshed as she paddled, gracefully, spreading her arms and drawing them close. She brought one elegant hand up to the edge of the dock and drew herself up from the water. My breath caught in my throat.



My eyes darted to the side, for a moment, and I saw a sky-blue dress dumped in a pile on the far side of the dock, a white towel hanging nearby on a wooden piling. My eyes travelled back to the woman, who was standing with her hands on her hips, fixing me with a cold, unwavering gaze.



She was naked. Naked, dripping wet, and wearing nothing but a scowl.



"Well? Anything to say?" she demanded coldly.



"I swear, I didn't—"



"Oh? That's supposed to make it all better? You think I'm some kind of floozy? You think I like to be watched?"



Her words were hard and clipped, her tone smoldering, but I couldn't help it: my eyes were drawn like magnets to the sight of her pale ripe breasts, her erect pink nipples, the slicked-down red hair of her trimmed bush.



I gave myself a mental slap on both cheeks. I wasn't here to watch. I wasn't supposed to enjoy this.



"I'll go. I'll go. I'll go," I spat out nervously, trying to ignore the whine in my voice. "Look, I'm sorry. I'll go. We'll just forget about this. You'll never see me again."



"Like hell," she said in measured tones. "You don't walk away that easily. You're staying right here."



"But—"



"Until I say so."



She didn't bother to cover herself, but she put a hand to her cheek, contemplating my fate.



"You're not gonna...tell anyone, are you?" I asked.



"And if I do? You got a problem with that?" she challenged.



"It was an accident!"



"Hush, now. Let me think," she ordered.



A moment passed. The ghost of a smile crossed her face.



"Well, I can't think like this," she said pointedly, looking down at herself.



Droplets of water dripped from her bare breasts. It took all I had not to stare as the tiny rivulets of water trickled down over her soft, ample breasts and down her taut belly.



"You see that towel over there?", she asked me, gesturing with her chin.



My ears perked up.



"Go grab it for me. Quick, now," she ordered.



I scampered over to the edge of the dock, and picked up the towel. With my eyes cast down, I went back over to her and dropped it at her feet.



I looked up and her eyes narrowed. She folded her arms across her breasts and tilted her head down, glaring at me with ice-green eyes.



Such beautiful eyes. For all I knew, she'd leave me bruised and bleeding on the dock. But she had beautiful eyes. I couldn't shake that thought.



"You come over here unannounced, enjoy the show of a lifetime, getting your rocks off watching me—"



"But I didn't—"



"Shut up. You enjoy the show of a lifetime, getting your rocks off watching me strut around for you, naked as a baby and chilled to the bone, and now you come around dumping my towel at my feet? No. I'll tell you what you're gonna do: you're gonna pick that towel up, you're gonna get on your knees like a good little boy, and you're gonna dry me off," she said.



I couldn't believe what I was hearing.



"W-what?" I stammered, dumbfounded.



"You heard me. You're gonna towel me down. You're not too good to dry a girl off after a swim, are you?" she asked innocently.



My eyes travelled up the length of her body, studying her flat belly, her slim legs, her well-muscled thighs, the swelling curves of her pink-tipped breasts. Her cold gaze made me shrink back, but God...I wanted to be close to her more than I could say. I wanted to touch her.



You're not supposed to enjoy this, I told myself. You're just doing as you're told. But that couldn't stop the steadily swelling erection that was starting to make my boxers feel tight.



I bent down to pick up the towel.



"Good..." she purred.



I moved to touch the towel to her stomach, and felt her hand on top of my head, gently nudging me down.



"Get on your knees", she said, "and work your way up,"



I let my knees bend, and let myself fall to the dock, feeling lake-water soak through the dark denim of my jeans.



"That's it..." she cooed. One corner of her mouth twitched in cruel amusement as she watched me kneel down before her.



I took the towel in my hands, and touched it to her dainty feet. Each of her toenails was painted a dark, oxblood red. Her toes were soft and slender.



Then I wrapped the towel around her left leg and slid it upwards, admiring the firm contours of her muscles through the soft fabric of the towel. Her skin was silk, luminous in the moonlight.



I slowly moved the towel over her legs and thighs, my heart speeding up with every moment I felt the outline of her body against my hands.



"Good boy," she cooed.



I felt her hand touch my head, drawing me up, slowly.



She was just toying with me now and I knew it, but I couldn't pull myself away.



Without taking the towel from her skin, I moved it upwards dabbing at the slick hair where her legs met, then wiping the water from the sides of her hips, slowly moving the towel around until I felt the soft flesh of her bare buttocks against my hand.



She chuckled at my hesitant touch. "Come on, baby, don't be shy," she teased. "You know you want to touch me. You like to watch me, don't you?"



This time, I didn't bother to deny anything. I gulped audibly, a fat bead of sweat forming on my brow, as I felt the ample curve of her soft, plump bottom under my hand, brushing the towel across the small of her back and the cleft of her buttocks.



The minutes ticked by, and I caressed every inch of bare flesh that I could reach through the towel. Bringing myself slowly up to a hunching position, her luscious breasts were at my eye-level, heaving slowly up and down in time with her even breaths.



"Well?" she asked. She put a hand to my chin and tilted my face upward to meet her gaze as she spoke.



I raised the towel and draped it across her chest, gently cupping her left breast through the fabric as I wiped it dry. With trembling hands, I dried her right breast, and with that, she plucked the towel from my hands and hung it around her neck, grinning girlishly at me all the while. The dimples in her cheeks deepened as she smiled, and her eyes seemed to sparkle. Those beautiful eyes.



"Thanks. Didn't think you'd play along. Maybe you are a gentlemen", she teased.



With no coverage but the towel around her neck, she turned around and tiptoed over to the piling at the other end of the dock, where her blue dress hung. I felt my jaw drop as my eyes drew to the curves of her well-rounded backside, gently swinging back and forth and just barely jiggling as she walked over to her clothes.



With a walk like that, she just had to know I was watching her. I imagined her smiling to herself as she thought of the look on my face.



In one elegant motion, the woman swept up her dress and slipped it over her head, letting its thin fabric drape over her newly dried form. It was a summer dress, just heavy enough to ward off the breeze of the lake, with white flowers stitched into the neckline, its hem just barely covering that magnificent bottom.



She turned around to face me with an easy smile on her face, anger long forgotten.



"Oh, come on. Nothing to be afraid of, now," she said, sensing my apprehension. "I was just having a little fun. I'm not mad."



"Doesn't mean I'm not still sorry," I said sheepishly.



She laughed at that, brushing off the remark with a toss of her hand.



"Hey, I've only been staying on the lake a couple of weeks. You're the first guy my own age I've run into. I'm just glad for the company. Didn't want to scare you off," she said.



"I just got here yesterday," I said. "Thought I was the only one around."



She giggled, covering her mouth with her hand. "Hell of a first impression," she said.



In spite of myself, I smiled at that. I ran a hand through my hair, suddenly more at ease than I'd been since catching my first glimpse of her.



"Well, I guess I can't just leave you like that," she said, extending her hand to me with a glint in her eye. "Proper introductions, then: my name's Grace. Grace Noelle."



I took her hand in mine and gave her a mocking little bow. "Roland Marx," I said. "My friends call me Rolly."



"Rolly-Polly, then?"



"Hey, we just met. Guess now it's just Roland," I told her.



"We'll see about that," Grace said.



She gestured with her hand to a little white cabin that sat at the top of the hill. Its windows were dark, and a few traces of Spanish moss hung from the eaves.



"I was just heading back up to my cabin. Want to join me?" she asked.



I gave a nonchalant shrug. But inside, my heart was racing. How could I turn her down?



"Sure," I told her, doing my best to sound calm and collected.



She smiled, her face lighting up. We fell into stride and made our way up the hill



"So how long have you been around here?" I asked Grace. There weren't many cabins around the lake, but most of the old retirees had stopped coming since the last time that I'd come up here. If Grace was one of the new regulars, I knew I'd have to find excuses to start coming again.



"Since February," she said. "But I come here all the time now. A friend of mine back in art school told me about it. It's the best place there is to paint, if you can find a place to stay. My place is small, but it works. I make some extra cash with my art now, so it's worth it."



"You paint?" I asked her. Back at Burbage, I'd once dated a freckled brunette with a pixie cut who worked as a nude life model for the art department. Ever since then, I'd had something of a fetish for women that knew how to handle paintbrushes.



"It's easier if I show you," she said, as we approached the front door of the cabin.



Grace bent down to grab a key out from under the welcome mat and opened the door.



The distinctive smell of wet oil paints struck me as I entered. There were no ceiling lights, but Grace immediately busied herself with switching on the few lamps that lay perched on tabletops.



The cabin was just one room, and smaller than most of the ones around the lake, but that just made it more cozy. There was no bed in the place, but Grace had a feather mattress laid out on the floor in front of a well-stuffed blue couch. There was an icebox at the far side of the room, a clothing chest at the wall, and a table piled high with painting supplies in the middle of the floor.



As Grace lit the lamps, lighting the place up bit by bit, I saw a painting of the lake come into focus. Its colors were vibrant, and its lines were sharp. She'd captured the lake at sunrise, with the sun's golden-red reflection spreading across the water's surface.



Next to it, there was a half-finished painting of a mountain range, the deep stone grey of the mountains contrasting with the white snowcap at the top.



"Beautiful," I breathed.



Grace blushed.



"I guess I'm alright," she said. "I get my share of bad reviews, but I do alright. Same as anybody else, I guess."



"Hey, I'm a professional bookworm," I admitted. "Art was never my forte. As long as it looks good hanging on a wall, it's good enough for me."



She laughed at that. "See, this is why I like guys like you. You're good for my ego."



Next to an empty easel, she had at least seven more paintings lined up along the wall, some finished and some unfinished. I moved a step closer to get a good look at them.



I felt Grace's hand on my shoulder.



"Give me one second. I'll be right back," she told me.



I nodded, and surveyed the row of paintings. Most of them were more nature scenes—mountains, lakes and beaches—but at the end of the row, I spotted a nude portrait.



The figure in the portrait was painted from the back, but visibly male. He had a muscular torso, well-formed shoulder blades, and firm buttocks. I'd spent enough time around artists that a painting of a nude man didn't catch me off guard, but I raised an eyebrow when I caught a better look at it.



Instead of standing proud or lounging nonchalantly in the standard nude poses, this man was kneeling on the ground, and his wrists were cuffed behind his back with a pair of metal handcuffs. Looking closer, I realized that Grace had taken the time to paint a series of pink welts on the man's back, obviously from some kind of whip or cane. It was barely distinct enough to notice, but the man's firm bottom also had a pink handprint standing out against his pale flesh, as if he'd just endured a spanking over someone's knee.



With a figure that accurate, this had to have been painted from life. But what man had let Grace bind him with handcuffs just for a painting?



Next to the painting, there was another portrait done in charcoal pencil. This one showed a man lying on his back in a four-poster bed, wearing nothing but a leather collar and a blindfold, with his hands and feet tied to the bedpost with rope. A short beard darkened the lower half of the man's face, and his genitals were rendered with careful detail.



Suddenly self-conscious, I looked away and found myself looking at a tabletop covered in pencils, tubes of paint and clean brushes. In the middle of the table, there was something that didn't belong there: a red leather flogger with its tails splayed out. In spite of myself, I felt my cock twitch at the sight of it.



I looked behind me, worried that Grace had seen me scrutinizing her intimate portraits and flogger, but she was preoccupied, bending over with her back to me over a wooden chest stuffed with spare clothes. After a few moments of rummaging through the chest, she pulled out a pair of lacy white panties. Oblivious to my hungry eyes, she stepped into her panties and bent down to pull them up. I got another peek at her plump bottom as she pulled her dress up and wiggled into her underwear.



Feeling voyeuristic, I turned back around, and found myself once again transfixed by Grace's portraits.



"Oh, no..." I heard Grace say sheepishly.



I turned around to face her as she approached me, and saw her covering her mouth in embarrassment.



"I forgot I left those out. I swear, normally I never leave them hanging around. I know they make people uncomfortable," she said.



"It's alright, I've seen worse," I said, feigning calm, but feeling my heart rate accelerate as she closed the space between us.



"Is there a story behind those?" I asked, gesturing at the portraits.



"Well... If you really want to know, it started with my first roommate back in college, when I started studying art. Her name was Sarah. Gorgeous girl. One of the sweetest people I ever met. I walked in on her once with a guy tied to the bed, just like that," she said, gesturing at the charcoal sketch.



"The first time it happened, I just got embarrassed and walked out. I figured she and her boyfriend just liked it rough sometimes. But then it happened three different times in the same semester, with three different guys. Every time, she was standing over them dressed up in black leather with a whip in her hand. I got curious, and I asked her what was up. It turned out there were guys at our school who paid her to do it. Fifty bucks for an hour of fun," she told me.



"Were you...into it too?" I asked nervously.



Grace shifted uneasily on her feet and smiled sheepishly.



"I guess I was never into the leather and the spikes and the 'Yes, mistress!' and all that. Not my style. But, you know... The idea excited me. The power, the intimacy, the struggle... And Sarah could tell I was curious, since I asked her so many questions. So one night she offered one of her 'friends' a free session if he let me paint him. It turned out to be one of the best portraits I ever did," she said.



"That was all you ever did?" I asked her. "The painting?"



Grace's smile deepened.



"Well... I did a few paintings. But then Sarah offered to take me under her wing for a session one day. I was her apprentice, I guess. We took some guy together, and gave him the time of his life for fifty bucks. She said I was a natural, but I guess I was too wrapped up in my art to do anything serious with it. I wasn't like her. Every once in a while with a boyfriend, though..." she said, her voice trailing off.



Grace took a lighter out, and busied herself with lighting the logs in the fireplace. A few minutes later, a fire was crackling.



Then she sat down on the couch and pointed to the spot next to her, motioning for me to sit with her. I walked over and sat down, and she slid close to me, brushing her shoulder up against mine.



This is really happening, I thought.



I moved to put my arm around her, and she giggled coquettishly.



A moment passed, and I savored the warmth of her body.



"Did you like what you saw back there?" she whispered in my ear.



Her lips brushed my ear, then my neck, raising goosebumps all along my arms and legs.



"Oh, you have no idea..." I murmured. My voice trailed off as I reached around to cup one of her breasts.

