The following morning, broke over Little Knobton with a golden clarity, the hills of Midlingtonshire stretching into the distance like a painter’s dream. Deborah Miles and Lorie Grayson sat in their terrace house, the air thick with the scent of brewing tea as Richard Henshaw paced their small living room. His camera rested on the mantel, a silent partner in their plans. The cold hearth bore the memory of past fires, but today’s warmth came from purpose, they were due at Emma Pritchard’s cottage to strategize the campaign against Farn Hollow.
At ten, they knocked on Emma’s door, her stone cottage a beacon of village life, its ownership tangled in Samantha’s shell company. Emma, mid-60s and sprightly, welcomed them with scones and a grin, her silver hair glinting as she gestured to a table cluttered with flyers. “Morning, troublemakers,” she said, pouring tea. “What’s this website business?”
“Lorie and I are on photos,” Richard said, settling in. “The floodplain, the river, visual proof of what Charles is risking. Deborah’s got flood data, Zack’s history angle.”
Lorie’s soft voice carried steel. “It’s got to hit hard, people need to see the land we’re losing.”
“Smart,” Emma replied, tapping a flyer. “I’ll rally the village. You’re onto something big.”
Deborah smirked. “Richard’s got Samantha meeting us later, she’s digging deeper into Charles’s mess.”
“Good,” Emma said, eyes sharp. “Keep me in the loop, I’ll stir the pot.”
They wrapped up quickly, spirits high, and Richard texted Samantha as they left: Waterfall, noon. Deborah and Lorie too. Bring your spark.
By noon, the four gathered near the waterfall, its mist rising like a veil. Samantha arrived last, cutting through the haze, scarf trailing. Richard’s gaze locked with hers, a current sparking, and Deborah caught it, laughing sharply. “Well, well, what’s this? You two look ready to combust.”
Richard opened his mouth to dodge, but Samantha stepped in, voice clear. “No use pretending. Deborah, Lorie, Richard and I are fucking each other. Yesterday, at his place, we pored over Charles’s new plans, then we went at it. Started slow on the sofa, he kissed me everywhere, fingered me till I came, then ate me out till I screamed. I came three times before he fucked me, missionary, deep and tender, best I’ve had in years. Later, I sucked him in the kitchen, bent over the table for a wild round, and we finished standing in the shower, hard and long. I’m not ashamed, he’s my lifeline.”
Lorie flushed, stammering, looking at Richard “But, everyone thinks Richard and Deborah…”
Samantha’s smile was gentle but firm. “I’ve known you two were lovers for years. The way you touch, the looks, I’ve kept my knowledge quiet, even from you.”
Deborah’s laugh rang out, free and bold. “Hell, Samantha, you’re a keeper. No bullshit.”
Richard chuckled, tension easing. “Guess we’re all out in the open now.”
Lorie grinned, nudging Deborah. “She fits right in.”
They dissolved into easy chatter, the waterfall’s roar a steady hum beneath their laughter, bonds tightening in the light of shared truth.
“Photos, then,” Deborah said, clapping. “Richard with Samantha, me with Lorie. Capture the land, and whatever else inspires you.”
The couples split, cameras ready. Richard and Samantha wandered upstream, his Nikon snapping, the river’s churn, the floodplain’s expanse. Then he turned to her. “Over there,” he said, pointing to a rock. She shed her scarf, blouse, trousers, standing naked in the mist, her slim form a sculpture against the falls. He clicked, framing her, small breasts, taut stomach, the curve of her hips.
“More,” she whispered, beckoning. He set the camera down, crossing to her, their kiss a slow burn that deepened into hunger. His hands roamed her, neck, shoulders, down to her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they hardened. She moaned, soft at first, then louder as he knelt, kissing her stomach, her thighs, parting them with gentle insistence. His fingers slipped inside her, slow and probing, curling just right, her breath hitched, a shudder building as he worked her, drawing out her first orgasm, a trembling cry swallowed by the water’s roar. He didn’t stop, adding a second finger, his thumb grazing her clit, and she came again, legs quaking, hands gripping his hair.
“More,” she gasped, and he obliged, mouth replacing fingers, lips and tongue teasing, sucking, exploring every fold. He lingered, savoring her taste, her heat, building her up with long, deliberate strokes until she shattered a third time, her voice raw, body arching against the rock. He rose, kissing her deeply, her own flavor on his lips, and she stripped him, shirt, jeans, boxers, his thick cock springing free, already hard. She ran her hands over him, tracing his length, his girth, a thrill sparking as she felt him pulse.
They sank to the mossy ground, her legs parting wide, and he entered her, slow at first, inch by inch, letting her adjust to his size. She gasped, clutching his shoulders, the stretch exquisite, and he began to move, deep and steady, each thrust stoking a fire. Her hips rose to meet him, their rhythm syncing, passionate, unhurried, a dance of new lovers. He angled himself, hitting a spot that made her see stars, and she came again, a rolling wave that clenched around him, her nails digging into his back. He kept going, lips on her neck, her breasts, whispering her name as she trembled beneath him, another orgasm building, fifth now, a crest that left her sobbing with pleasure. He thrust harder, chasing his own edge, and when he came, it was a flood, his groan echoing as he filled her, their bodies locked in a shuddering embrace.
They lay there, panting, the earth cool against their sweat-slick skin, the waterfall a distant hum. She traced his chest, his cock softening against her thigh, and they kissed again, lazy, sated, a promise of more.
Downstream, Deborah and Lorie framed the riverbank, reeds swaying, a heron’s flight. Then Lorie turned, smirking. “Your turn, love.” Deborah shed her jacket, shirt, jeans, standing bare, her toned body a testament to her energy. Lorie’s lens caught her, muscles flexing, breasts full, a glint of defiance. Then Lorie stripped too, her softer curves a contrast, and they closed the gap, hands roaming, Deborah’s on Lorie’s waist, Lorie’s on Deborah’s ass. They kissed, slow and deep, tongues tangling, a heat building as Deborah’s fingers trailed down, parting Lorie’s thighs, slipping inside with a practiced ease.
Lorie moaned, loud and unrestrained, as Deborah worked her, two fingers, then three, curling and thrusting, her thumb circling Lorie’s clit with relentless precision. The first orgasm hit fast, Lorie’s knees buckling, but Deborah held her up, kissing her neck, her breasts, sucking a nipple as she pushed deeper. Lorie came again, a wet rush against Deborah’s hand, her cries sharp in the open air. They sank to the grass, Lorie spreading wide, and Deborah’s mouth took over, lips sucking, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to tease. She explored every inch, slow and thorough, building Lorie up, third orgasm, fourth, each one louder, wetter, until Lorie was a trembling mess, hands fisting the earth.
Deborah straddled her then, grinding down, their slick centers rubbing together, a friction that sparked anew. They rocked, hands clutching, mouths locked, until Deborah came hard, shuddering, her voice a low growl and Lorie followed, a fifth climax syncing with hers, their bodies a tangle of sweat and satisfaction. The camera, on its tripod, clicked away, capturing every gasp, every arch, a private symphony of love.
They reconvened by the waterfall, flushed and grinning. Lorie snatched Richard’s camera, scrolling through his shots of Samantha nude, radiant, mid-orgasm. “Goddamn, Samantha, your body’s a masterpiece,” she said, coy. “But they’d pop with Richard in frame.”
Samantha arched a brow. “Show me.”
Lorie handed the camera back, stripping herself and Deborah with a laugh. They posed, Lorie’s hands kneading Deborah’s breasts, Deborah’s fingers brushing Lorie’s lips, then dipping lower, a slow tease of penetration as Lorie gasped. Deborah’s mouth followed, kissing Lorie’s stomach, her thighs, a light suck on her clit, mild but electric, their bodies a tableau of trust. Richard’s shutter snapped, frame after frame, their intimacy a quiet fire.
Samantha watched, arousal coiling tight. “My go,” she said, shedding her clothes again. “Richard, with me.” He stripped, his cock stirring at her command, and they kissed, fierce, possessive, her hands stroking him to full hardness. Lorie took the camera, lens trained as Samantha sank down, taking him in her mouth. She worked him slow, lips tight, tongue swirling, savoring his swell, his groans, then deeper, throat relaxing as he pulsed, pre-cum sharp on her tongue. She sucked until he was rock-hard, trembling, then rose, guiding him to the ground.
She straddled him, sinking onto his length with a moan, her hips rolling as he filled her, thick, deep, a perfect fit. They fucked with abandon, her breasts bouncing, his hands gripping her ass, pulling her down harder. She came fast, a clenching rush, then again as he thrust up, relentless, his cock hitting every nerve. Lorie circled, snapping Samantha’s head thrown back, Richard’s jaw tight, their sweat-glossed bodies in sync. Samantha leaned forward, kissing him, grinding slow now, drawing out a third orgasm, a fourth, each one building on the last until she was screaming, her voice raw. He flipped her onto her back, missionary again, and pounded, long, hard strokes, her legs wide, heels digging into his back. She came a fifth time, a sixth, her body a live wire, and he roared, spilling into her, his climax a flood that left them both wrecked.
They collapsed, gasping, Lorie’s camera still clicking, the afterglow, their tangled limbs, a testament to their passion.
Dressed, they returned to Deborah and Lorie’s terrace house, the sun dipping low. Around Lorie’s laptop, they sorted photos, landscape shots for the campaign, intimate ones for themselves. The waterfall gleamed, the floodplain’s peril stark. “These’ll wake people up,” Deborah said, tagging the public set.
Richard scrolled to his shots of Samantha, nude, mid-thrust, radiant. “And these?”
“Private,” Samantha said, her hand on his. “Ours.”
Lorie smirked, pulling up her gallery, her and Deborah, slick and entwined. “Same. This one’s a keeper.”
Laughter filled the room, Farn Hollow’s shadow fading in their shared defiance. The website would strike soon, but for now, they held their art, their love, a lens of truth against the storm ahead.
Farn Hollow 
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