Chapter One

 

The stuff of the earth didn't bother Rory. It never had. Other girls might squeal and jump around because of various bugs or reptiles but she took them in stride, welcoming them like old acquaintances.

In fact, when the spider began to crawl across her wrist as she lay on her belly in the field, her camera focused intently on the budding rudbeckia before her, her only thought about the tiny trespasser on her body was whether it might make a more interesting picture if she gently moved her wrist up to let it crawl off onto the flower.

Rudbeckia themselves were not, after all intrinsically interesting, despite being an appealing and photogenic flower. Even the close up and odd-angled shots Rory preferred.

Unfortunately, she spent too much time considering the question, and the spider continued on its journey, over the brief speed bump of her wrist, and on to where it was going, and so she was forced to again consider what would be the best angle for the shot she wanted - without accompanying spider.

She had plenty of time. It was summer, and she was barely nineteen. She had all the time in the world. She was not distracted by any sense of urgency. It was very peaceful and pleasant in the meadow, and she could hear the sound of water burbling by in the nearby brook.

The sound gave her an idea, and she perked up, raising her eye, finally, from the camera, and reconsidering her shot. Something unusual. Yes, that would be lovely.

She plucked the Rudbeckia from its bed with only minor, unvoiced apologies. They were a perennial in any event, and would return next year. She rose up, camera dangling from her neck, and made her way through the waist high grass to the edge of the brook, intent on a liquid background for her shot.

She paused at the side of the brook. It was about six feet wide, and reasonably deep in spots. The water was clean and clear, and it was a lovely warm day. She slipped off her shoes and eased carefully into the water, rudbeckia in hand, then spent some time considering how and where to place the flower for her shot.

It took her a little time, but she found the perfect spot, right where the brook deepened and the water flowed over a group of flat stones just before the land sloped downward. With some care, she was able to anchor the stem of the flower while leaving it above the water.

Then came the task of finding just the right angle. She tried several shots, but the perfect angle was, as she'd suspected, from the overhanging limb of a large oak tree. In shorts and tank top, feet still bare, she shinnied up the short distance to it, then slid along its length until she was laying prone along it, camera pointed down at the flower.

She got her shot.

But the effort was slightly difficult, and, given the warmth of the day, left her slightly sweaty and mussed. And she was all alone, and there was a lovely brook, and besides, she now had another idea for a shot.

Removing her shorts and top, as well as her underthings took only moments, then she waded back into the water. It was shallow, barely above her ankle in this spot, but she lay back in the swift flowing, burbling brook and let it flow over and around her, enjoying its coolness on her skin.

And as she did so it occurred to her that this too would be an excellent shot, if only someone was overhead in the tree branch. She couldn't be both places at once, of course, but the camera did have a timer, so, carefully placing a few stones to mark where she'd lain, she stepped out of the brook and, this time naked, carefully climbed up the tree with camera in hand.

She slid out over the water and pointed the camera down, set up the timer, then wrapped the strap around the branch and tried to position it properly. With the final push of a button it was set, and she backed away, dropped nimbly to the ground, and hurried out into the water.

There, she lay back, letting the water wash over her in bubbling waves as she waited for the camera's timer to tick down. The water was shallow enough to cover only half her body, but it did lap over her stomach and waves swirled over and around her breasts as they did the rocks around her.

She thought about what she would title the shot. It would be solely for her own private collection, of course, not something she would ever offer up to her teachers once college resumed and she went back to her visual arts courses, nor something she would show to friends or family. Rory was not altogether comfortable with her body.

Or, rather, she was comfortable with her body, but not so much with the reaction others sometimes had to it, be they men or women.

Other than its fitness, which she had a part in given she controlled what food and exercise it got, she took no especial pride in her health or shape. In fact, for most of her teens she had her face so deeply buried in books she hardly noticed or gave pause to consider that some might be jealous or that her body might give others inaccurate ideas about her.

She had long recognized, being an avid photographer, that her body's visual appeal was in keeping with that of many of the nudes she saw in various artistic books and photographic magazines. That is to say, she had a smooth complexion unmarried by blemishes or scars, her facial features were pleasantly arranged, she had nice hair, and her body's shape had curves in all the proper places.

It did not occur to her, early on, that other girls might find cause for jealousy and resentment for one or more of those features, none of which she had had any control over. She had not chosen that particular shade of cornflower blue for her eyes, nor done anything to be credited with the size or shape of her breasts.

Thus since she certainly took no great pride in them and knew full well she should take no credit for them neither had it occurred to her she might be given the blame for how such things affected others.

She had not paid a lot of attention to people in her adolescence, it was true, so deep in books and mad for photography as she had been. Other girls had other interests, like clothes, fashion, shoes (of all things!) and the habits of Hollywood actresses and celebrities, none of which she had any use for or interest in.

Boys were dirty and violent, prior to adolescence, and crude, salivating idiots afterward. They and their various sporting and automotive interests held even less interest for her.

And she certainly never dressed to attract that interest to herself, though it was true doing nothing overt to dissuade it either. She dressed for comfort, and in the colors which she thought looked attractive to her eyes.

It was a rude discovery, then, that she was a slut. Being a virgin when discovering this 'fact' she was more than slightly startled. However, apparently it was well known to those around her, especially the girls, who sneered at the size of her breasts, and called her an airhead and a blonde bimbo.

It was true that her mind was often occupied on other, more esoteric things when the teacher was lecturing, or nearby girls were talking about something boring, but Rory had always been a dreamer, with a wildly active imagination, but she effortlessly managed straight-As in almost every class.

Any number of boys had apparently slept with her, and boasted about it, and this was widely believed, apparently, because a girl who looked like her and was an 'airhead' was expected to be 'easy'.

Further, once she had that reputation it proved impossible to get rid of it. Even boys who asked her out, using crudely suggestive language, and were turned down flat, would often later boast of what they had done together.

Evidently they had good imaginations, too.

The discovery of her reputation was included in an argument she had with Rebecca Calhoun, who sat next to her, and who claimed Rory was trying to steal her boyfriend. She had, after all, spoken to him about a homework assignment the other day, and worse, he was always looking at her, according to Rebecca.

Her new awareness of her reputation was unnerving, but did not long daunt her. Nevertheless, it did raise the awareness of how others saw her based upon her body, and she did, after that, notice how many looks she got during the day, wherever she went. Long, lingering looks, usually from boys whose interest was written plain on their faces if she cared to read it.

She didn't, for the most part. Such interest annoyed and embarrassed her. Then. Still, at least many of them were nice to her, even if that was only as an introduction to an attempt at seducing her. Few girls ever were, not all through high school.

She was, after all, a boyfriend stealing slut.

Rory became somewhat more withdrawn from people after that, from girls because they were unfriendly and suspicious and jealous, and from boys for fear of confirming all the things the girls said about her.

Thus her sexual exploration period was, of necessity, a solitary affair, if not unrewarding. Her body was fit and firm and had certain places which provoked a good deal of interesting sensations when touched in certain ways.

Even caressing her skin gave her a sense of tactile pleasure, even more so when that skin was coated in soap or something else slick, like suntan lotion or baby oil or hand cream.

Being an imaginative girl, her explorations had been quite complete. She had experimented in almost every aspect of masturbation she could, aided by a variety of fantasies and imaginary situations, as well as internet pictures, videos and drawings, and had enjoyed quite a healthy and active sex life. By herself.

Her first year in college had introduced men into her life, well, younger men. She had made the determined effort to do get to know them, and to dress in a way she hoped would not gain her the same reputation she'd had in high school.

At the same time, given the wider population at college, she had indulged her active interest in exploring sex with a partner. Unfortunately, she had found it largely unsatisfying. The men at college did not seem to have either the imagination or staying power she did. Basic sex lasting two or three or perhaps five minutes was more than enough to bring them to orgasm every single time.

Sex with men, she thought, was evidently overrated. Masturbation was much more satisfying.

As the camera overhead began to click, she arched her body slowly, moving, positioning, turning, writhing so that the camera would get slightly different images with each picture it took. She let her hand slide artfully up across her hip, between her legs, then up her abdomen and stomach and across her breasts.