Alphabetical Orders by Amelie Page B

heart on Ravi’s buttocks. He told me he’d done it in my honour. That he’d never forgotten. I think of it bobbing up and down between my thighs and watching my nails scratch away at its outline.

U is for Ulrika
    U lrika moved in to the house next door last week.
    She’s Icelandic, blonde, tall and slender.
    Her eyes are as blue as rock pools.
    Every night she takes a shower. I know because I watch her silhouette behind the frosted glass of her upstairs bathroom.
    I watch her slowly towel herself down. I admire the curves of her breasts and her hips. I see her check herself out in the mirror and I’ve seen her shave herself down below, taking all the time of an artist working on a canvas.
    I imagine drying her back and brushing her hair like I’m her personal maid. I picture myself doing the shaving.
    I hope we never get to meet. If I were to get to know her, I’m not sure I could spy on her like this anymore. 

V is for Venus
    S imon and I went to Paris for our honeymoon.
    It was everything I’d hoped the city would be and more. It’s such an amazing place.
    It was the Louvre that I think of while I’m making love. In particular, I think of the Venus de Milo. Aphrodite of Milos. Even in the sultry summer heat, she looked cool and collected.
    Even without her arms she looks complete as a woman.
    The marble that she’s carved of is so smooth and clean it made me want to stroke her all over. To run my fingers along her neck, over her ripe breasts and those perfectly erect nipples and down across her belly button.
    Her eyes seem to notice everything. It’s as if she can see into every woman’s heart and into their wildest fantasies.
    I wanted to run my hands under the cloth that’s draped around her hips as if it’s ready to fall to the floor. I imagine finding her beneath those clothes and stroking her there until her face cracks into a divine smile.

W is for Weddings
    I was a bridesmaid once. Apart from my own wedding, it was my favourite of all those I’ve attended.
    I remember the buzz of the morning, the bride and the three maids having our hair done together. We had a glass of champagne to help to add bubbles to the experience as the hairdresser curled and tied, trimmed and toiled. I had extensions that day. They were so carefully clipped in that they looked like the real thing.
    When she was done, we went upstairs to get dressed.
    The champagne must have gone to my head because I couldn’t take my eyes off the other girls.
    We dressed in layers.
    First we put on lilac knickers that shone in the sunlight. Against our tanned bodies, they looked exotic and hot.
    Next we put on our suspender belts. They were tight and black and hugged our flesh.
    The stockings were dark and sleek and made our legs look longer than they really were. The bride looked gorgeous as she basked in her centre stage role. Even though she’d had a neat Brazilian that morning, her mound stood proud. I wanted to touch her so badly that I went over to help her with her garter. I slipped it over her calf, past her knee and onto her thigh. When I arrived at the top, I rubbed my shoulder against her quim. I’m sure it gave me an electric shock. She smiled down at me and stared. For an instant I saw a come-on look in her eyes and then I watched it vanish into the serious face of preparation.
    Our bras were strapless. They pushed up our breasts so that our cleavages were tight and deep. Even Marianne, whose tits were the size of plums, found some shape.
    Each of us had to step into a crinoline petticoat. The bride’s was the biggest, of course. I think the idea was that we’d look Victorian. Maybe we did.
    We stepped into our lilac dresses and were laced up tightly at the back by the various relatives who were helping out.
    To finish off the look, beautiful daisies were put into our hair.
    The bride’s veil was poured over her and we were ready.
    We went to the church in a horse-drawn carriage. Every time I’ve smelled horse dung