Private Game

She dipped her head and, with surprising dexterity, pecked the disc out of surf with her teeth. She turned proudly to face me, water cascading from her mouth. She attempted some sort of sarcastic doggy noise, and then coughed, spitting out her prize.

"Aw fuck, that's salty." She grimaced.

I convulsed with laughter and she smirked, maybe even blushed a little. She carefully shook the water off the Frisbee and put it back in her mouth. She trotted towards me with exaggerated pride. Now she was glistening, every soft angle of her body described by shimmering highlights. She had plenty to be proud of.

She planted herself decisively on her knees next to me, her hands flat on her thighs. She held herself erect. I smiled at her for a while, frankly and indulgently staring. Just when I needed them, my elaborate similes failed me. She was beautiful like... she was funny like... I loved her like...

I reached out and toyed with her hair. I patted and stroked her. My voice was supposed to sound playful, but it came out hoarse and weak.

"Good girl."

Honey tilted her head a little to one side, an eyebrow cocked just a little.

"Ruff?" she said.

Struck by a sudden idea, I reached back and untied my bikini top. Although adequately hefty, as I think I have hinted, my boobs are nothing to knock you out. Nobody has to duck if I dance recklessly. But the nipples are dark and elegantly long, and under Honey's gaze I feel like the slender sort of actress you get in French films.

I smirked as she made a cartoonish growl in her throat, then introduced my bikini to her hair. With a little inept scrunching and tying I arranged her glowing locks into a couple of floppy ear-like mops and secured them in place with the tangle of red strings. Somewhere in the confusion the two red triangles could almost be mistaken for an adorable bow. I grinned mischievously, childishly amused. She raised her eyebrows and said "Aroo?" in a tone of voice that was clearly saying "Really?"

I laughed and took the Frisbee from her mouth. She pouted. I lifted the toy a little and her eyes followed it. After a moment she realised she was supposed to follow it with her lips, and she reached up. I moved it further away and she reached higher. Soon my arm was as high as I could stretch, she was up on her knees, and her tongue was lapping at the air, vainly trying to touch the elusive prize. Shoulders back, chest out, lithe and pert.

"You have never in your life looked so ridiculous," I purred. "And nobody – nobody – has ever looked so completely, fuckably hot."

She grinned, playfully catching her tongue between her teeth. She knew perfectly well how horny she was making me. I wondered if she knew how much I loved her. Right now, right in this moment, as she played this silly game for my entertainment, as she made herself the only thing I wanted to see or think about: did she know how much I loved her?

"Who's my little Hunny-wunny?" I asked, doing the voice we do when we talk to dogs. Why do we talk like a dog when we talk to a dog? And why does 'talk like a dog' really mean 'talk like Scooby-Doo'?

"Who's my good girl? Is it 'oo? Is it?"

Honey yapped and looked absurdly pleased. I continued to dangle the Frisbee above her, but now she was distracted as I reached with the other hand and tickled her ribs.

"Who's a pretty puppy? Aren't you beautiful!"

I tickled and she squealed and wriggled and tried to reach the Frisbee with her mouth, then convulsed and gurgled. She was ticklish.

"Sit!" I said, smartly, and I stopped tickling her. She sat back on her knees.

"Lie down!" She shuffled until she was laying on her belly with her knees curled up beside her. She tried to look cartoon cute but she snorted with laughter and looked achingly sexy instead.

"Roll over," I suggested.

She looked at me, in the way only she can. The way that stops me breathing. She rolled onto her back, her feet towards me, then lifted her knees and spread her thighs acrobatically wide. Pink. So pink. Her little toes wiggled and pawed at the sand. She was pinned in the sunlight, breathtakingly naked. She was trying not to laugh.

"Honestly," I murmured. "Beg."

Her toes planted firmly on the ground and she lifted her pelvis, thrust herself obscenely towards me. There was a theatrical whine in her voice.

"Please," she overacted.

"Stop that."

"But please, Maggie..."

"Bad dog. Beg."

She flipped over and got back onto her knees, brushing sand off her skin in a frenzy. She looked at me sort of sideways and smirked. She shuffled near and resumed her erect pose, with her arms tight to her sides. She lifted her hands clumsily like little paws. She made her eyes wide and bit her lip. A wordless, plaintive sound came from her throat.

I shook my head in bafflement. She knew very well what she did to me. Perhaps that was why I had no idea how to tell her myself. Instead I settled for gently bopping her on the head with the Frisbee and throwing it with a wide sweep of my arm towards the sea.

This was a much more skilful throw and it flew beautifully. It was going to go too far, beyond the shallows, but the wind caught it again, and this time it was carried magnificently down the beach. Honey watched it for what seemed like a very long time. After a long silence, a long way off, the disc slapped softly into the surf again. The motion of the waves immediately began to drag it bobbing along the breakers, further down the shore. It must have travelled hundreds of yards, and was still travelling.

Honey stood up on her hind legs and watched it.

"Aw, you're kidding me," she muttered. "Did you do that on purpose?"

I clasped my hand to my mouth as I giggled silently, shaking my head.

"Are you being a circus dog?" I managed to say. "That's clever balancing for a puppy."

She pouted at me, exasperated. She dropped to her hands and knees.

"You're fucking... growl, etcetera... you're kidding me."

I giggled less silently. "Shush. Fetch."

She shook her head and I caught a hint of a smile as she turned away. She crawled angrily for a few paces, then leapt into her mad yapping scampering routine again. I watched her with a dreamy grin and listened to her repertoire of words that sounded like a description of noises a sarcastic dog might make.

Unbidden, my hand had slithered over my hot skin and snuck inside my remaining fragment of clothing. My long fingers combed through my bush and slid over my sensitive sex. Over, across, inside. No need to concentrate, every motion was programmed into muscle memory. All of my attention was on my beautiful friend as she crawled and barked and occasionally swore her way across the sand.

I watched my beloved, the light of my life, scamper like a puppy for my amusement, and I frankly jilled off. Instead of telling her earnestly and tenderly how utterly she consumed me, I had told her to fetch. Surely I should be ashamed of myself? Surely I deserved to go to Hell? I seemed to be squarely and unambiguously in Heaven.

She seemed to crawl for ever, slower now in the relentless heat, her little behind wiggling hypnotically. I felt myself drifting again. She was white like a white dog. No, that was useless. She was pink like... Okay, the sea again: the sea was blue like the only eyes I ever wanted on me. The surf was trimmed with creamy foam like...

My fingers moved, over, across, inside. They dipped and polished and played. I was drifting, dozing like before, but this time my fluttering eyes followed Honey's progress, and my fingers made me shiver.

She caught up with the Frisbee. She pecked it out of the water again, more carefully this time. She didn't choke on the salty surf. She knelt and looked back at me. I waved languidly with my free hand. She was tiny, but glowing. She looked away, her attention suddenly caught by something inland, down at her end of the beach. She was looking at something which, from my angle, was hidden behind the edge of the treeline. The plastic toy still dangling from her teeth, she began to trot on hands and knees towards whatever was so fascinating. Supple and playful and so full of energy.

I watched her until she was out of sight. I tried not to feel anxious about her going off alone. She knew about the treacherous forest or ravine or whatever was fenced off at the south of the island, didn't she? It was fenced off. She wasn't stupid. I wasn't anxious.

"Okay Honey-pie," I murmured, lying back and closing my eyes. "Go and tumble into trees and climb lagoons. You've earned it."

I allowed myself to doze again, and my fingers moved more slowly.

**

As I dozed and my fingers rested snug and still inside me, I dreamed about voices. I dreamed of Honey yapping or saying "Woof". No, I just dreamed of voices, lots of voices: women shouting far off, complaining nearby. I don't like lots of voices. I steered my thoughts around to Honey, and thought about sundown to dawn. That was a lovely thought.

How do you characterise that sort of sexuality? Well, you don't, of course, you just call her Honey-pie and be grateful. But what was that quality? That energy? That willingness? For a while I had been toying with the term "Aggressive Submission". Did that even make sense? Those times when I watched her in mute incomprehension as she wriggled onto the bed between my legs, her eyes almost shy and meek, what was that? When she settled in a little naked bundle and warmed me with her diligent mouth... she was serving me, giving herself.

When she invited these Consequences and made me laugh at her, what was that? Giving herself, but in a way that was out of my control. I couldn't resist her, and she didn't want to resist me. "Aggressive" is too strong, and so is "Submission", but they sort of pull in opposite directions and even out in the middle somewhere.

I was a little anxious. And the dreams of voices were bothering me again. They were closer and complaining. Honey was complaining. What was she complaining about?

My eyes flickered open and watched my Honey-pie's white body tripping up the beach towards me. She was white like sand. She was covered in sand, to be fair. She was complaining. What was she complaining about?

"Let fucking go of me, or I'll punch your face off!"

That was clear enough, as far as it went.

The woman beside her was not white like sand, although she was a little sandy too. She was like a creamy mocha, or a toasted almond (if that's even one colour), or in any case she was some delicious cliché.

But most importantly, I thought, there's someone coming down the beach with Honey, oh Jesus Christing Fuck my hand is still in my nonny and there's a stranger walking down my beach.

I was suddenly more awake than I have ever been in my life, and I was entirely not playing with myself, and I took in the preposterous scene with ever widening eyes.

There was Honey (white, sandy, punch your face off, etcetera) a Frisbee waving wildly in one hand, her other twisted inconveniently up behind her back, forcing her to stagger and stoop as she kicked up sand and swore.

The woman who wasn't letting fucking go of her (mocha, toasted, borderline racism, sorry about that) was about her height, heavier at her hips and breasts, and stunningly beautiful. She had the bearing of a supermodel but less height and more femininity. Her dark hair was not longer than Honey's but bobbed and wafted in loose afro curls. She had a satisfyingly soft square jaw, defined cheeks, a button nose and sleepy eyes. An amused mouth with dimples completed her untroubled face in a way that made her incredibly pretty. In the same way a shark is incredibly toothy.

She held Honey effortlessly in a grip that was more technique than strength, and she walked with a perfect balance and sway. She wore a dress that was little more than a drape of gauzy lace and was clearly designed to be a layer over a bikini, but she haughtily rejected such mundanity. So I tried not to watch a dark delta of hair, rocking from side to side as she approached, and I successfully failed to notice her warmly chocolate nipples bobbing as though they didn't care if they slipped free of their inconsequential cover altogether.

She was ignoring Honey and staring with no apparent emotion at me. But I wasn't ready to deal with her yet because I still had some more astonishment to process.

Because there was a third woman. She was on the other side of the negligently draped goddess, and she had a cool creamy tan, the colour of something else delicious, but Caucasian. Perhaps the colour I would be if I was more careful about my sunscreen. Her hair was blonde, short and choppy. I guessed she was taller than the others, perhaps taller than me, but I had to guess because she was crawling on her hands and knees. She was lean and strong, with pretty little breasts and a long lithe back. Her face was long too, a little angular, and her mouth was stretched wide by the gag between her teeth. It was a little like a horse's bit, made from hard black rubber, and it made her drool. Apart from the thick leather collar on her neck, she was otherwise naked.

I spent a little time staring with my mouth open and not playing with myself.

They stopped a yard away from my lounger and they all looked at me. Actually, the blonde woman only gave me a glance, then turned her eyes upwards to gaze at the other stranger and continued to breathe hard and rhythmically, like a panting dog. I could hear her breath huffing softly.

It was all too much. I'm not one to confuse dreams with reality, but I had to wonder how my games with Honey had somehow segued into this extraordinary apparition.

I was creepingly aware that I was all but naked, and in fact there was suddenly an awful lot of nakedness around altogether. I was transfixed by the thought.

"Maggie!" Honey snapped at me and I looked up at her in a daze. She was still being held tight.

I looked at her captor and finally found some words.

"Would you let go of her please?" It could have sounded feeble, but there was something icy in the way I said it, unexpectedly, and I liked it. The woman glanced sideways at Honey, with a smile that was almost cheeky, and let go of her. Honey looked like she might punch her after all, but a subtle tilt of the woman's head subdued her. Honey stomped around to the other side of the lounger and dropped to her knees beside me. She curled up small so that she was hidden behind me, and her face turned to nuzzle my shoulder. I'd never seen her so timid.

I gently stroked her burning hot hair, and tried to ignore the ridiculous floppy dog-ears I'd given her.

"Maggie, is it? Margaret Foster?"

When I turned sharply to look at her, the woman had extended an elegant hand to be shaken.

"How do you know my name?"

"I'm Lorna," she smiled, patiently leaving her hand where I could shake it if I chose to. Her simple confidence made me comply. Her hand was strong and silky. The way she said 'Lorna' had a sexy intelligent roundness to it, and suggested something like a Caribbean accent.

"Lorna... who... where the hell did you come from? What are you doing on my island?"

"You're on my island," Lorna explained with an impish grin. "How do you like it?"

"Your..." I was struggling. Too many questions were jostling for my attention. Other contenders for my attention were the astonishing women around me, such as, to pick one at random, the crawling one wearing a collar and gag and staring adoringly at her mistress. But heaps of questions too. I settled on one. "What's going on?" I demanded. "What... what's going on?" I scowled, gathered my thoughts, and tried again: "What's going on?"

Lorna smiled, retrieved her hand, and transferred it to the gagged woman's head, where it rested in her hair, making her stiffen and close her eyes, and making her breaths quicken.

"I'm so sorry for intruding, I wouldn't normally, but your... pet intrigued me. As you might imagine."

I felt a chilling, guilty sickness, and I looked nervously at Honey, but didn't dare to look her in the eye.

"Please don't call her that. She's my partner." I didn't like the implication or the association. It made me feel sick to think about it with this spectacle in front of me. I concentrated on not shuffling awkwardly or trying to cover my nudity. Then I worried I looked oddly stiff, like a Barbie doll. So I shifted awkwardly and draped my arm over Honey's shoulders, hugging her protectively. She was still hiding behind me, but now she was watching the strangers with a level gaze.

"Your partner, I'm sorry." When Lorna was sorry, she was service-industry sorry. But top-end service. Unimpeachably polite, undeniably honest, insincere. "Well, I'm afraid your... 'partner' bit my... 'bitch'." She managed to make the air-quotes with her voice. "It's completely fine, but I thought we should meet anyway."

Honey rose up, furious.

"Your 'bitch' attacked me!" she snapped. "I thought I was being mauled by a fucking psycho, so of course I bit her!"

The 'bitch' looked away from us all, but leaned against Lorna's leg. Lorna continued to speak to me, not Honey, in calmly amused tones.

"As I said, it's fine. A misunderstanding. Fifi deserved it. But I thought I should speak to you. They're good girls, but they can't always control themselves, that's why I favour a muzzle."

Before Honey could launch herself and do harm to the strange woman, I turned to her and put my hands either side of her face, barely holding her at all.

"It's okay, baby," I whispered. "Are you hurt? Will you let me talk to her first?"

"I'm fine," she growled. "The bitch knocked me down. Ran at me and knocked me down. I'm fine."

I kissed her. I looked at her furious eyes. This, I hated. When Honey wasn't peaceful the world felt hard-edged and lonely. I had to emerge from my hiding place.

I let Honey drop down and hide behind me again, and I let my hand caress her shoulder. I turned to Lorna with new focus.

"Okay," I said, businesslike, "I'm hearing a lot of 'fine' without any real evidence. There's a lot that isn't fine on all sorts of levels. On a mundane level, I don't believe this is your island, and if it was yours you would know we are supposed to have it to ourselves."

Lorna smiled a sad little hotel manager smile. "Secluded, uninterrupted, unobserved. You're quite right. Up until ten minutes ago that's exactly what you had. I'm sorry. You're right. I will ensure you are refunded for your stay, with no hard feelings."

I felt the impact of the vast amount of money that had just theoretically come barrelling back at me. But I didn't let it divert me.

"Next unfine thing is: I doubt your name is Lorna, and hers is certainly not Fifi. Your boundaries are your business, but we haven't crossed inside them, so don't involve us." I knew what I meant, and I think she did too. It's the sort of line you have to allow to dissolve and move on.

Lorna shrugged and looked down at the supposed Fifi.

"Oh well... my name is Lorna. And in fact hers is Fifi, isn't it?" Fifi nodded her fluffy blonde head, delighted to share this exchange. "It's true her name used to be something else, but nothing important. Nothing... I actually forget exactly what it was. Something Scandiwegian, anyway. Somebody's dottir. Ingrid or Helga or something too dignified anyway."

Fifi drank all this in, her breath missing every now and then, her eyes becoming two pools which yearned for Lorna to dive into them. Lorna wasn't the sort of person who forgot names. But this charade was delicious torture for Fifi. Lorna continued to smile at her for a moment, stroking her hair, then she shoved her head away, hard.

"Lie down, we've seen enough of you," she said, not unkindly, and Fifi settled down on the sand, head lowered with her knees curled under her.