The sun is brutal and high and the whole cove glows like somebody set the green to simmer. She stands at the edge of the water with her hands on her hips and her head tipped to one side, which is her way of asking the world a question. The world doesn’t answer. It never does, and she’s stopped expecting it to. That’s fine. She’s always been better at answering for herself anyway.
The bikini is new. She picked it out for exactly this, the top a wet-looking purple that shines like a beetle’s wing, the bottom black with the same slick shine, and it fits her like it was poured on. She turns once in the sun to check her own reflection in the water, watching her tits shift under the purple, and approves of what she sees. She’s not shy about that. Never has been. A girl falls down one rabbit hole and spends the rest of her life knowing exactly what she wants, and right now what she wants is the water.
She wades in. It’s cold enough to make her gasp, sharp and bright against sun-warmed skin, and she laughs at the shock of it, that breathless little laugh that got her into trouble in more gardens than she can count. The pool is deep toward the base of the falls, where the spray hangs in the air like mist at a mad sort of party. She swims toward it, breaststroke, unhurried, because the point isn’t the arriving. The point has never been the arriving. Her ass breaks the surface with each kick, water sliding off the black fabric like it can’t stand to leave.
Under the fall, the water hits her shoulders like hands. She stands in it with her face tipped up and her blonde hair going dark and heavy down her back, streaming. This is the part she came for. The roar of it blocks out every thought she’s ever had, and for a girl whose head runs at ten speeds at once, silence like that is a treat worth climbing down any hole for. She lets it hammer her. She lets it turn her skin to goosebumps under the purple, her nipples going hard against the slick fabric, her tits aching faintly from the cold and the pounding water, and she doesn’t bother hiding it because she knows you’re watching.
She’s always known. That’s the trick of Alice, the part nobody quite catches. She looks like a daydream, sure, all big blue eyes and dazed little smile, but she performs her daydreams. Every stretch, every slow arch of her back under the falls, that’s for you. She opens her eyes through the spray and looks straight out through the water and the sun, straight at you, and she smiles like she’s just found you hiding behind the hedge at the Queen’s garden and finds it charming.
“Curiouser,” she says, and it comes out half swallowed by the roar.
She steps out from under the fall onto a flat slab of rock at its base, warm and wet, and the sun hits her all at once. Water runs off her in bright lines. She drags her hair over one shoulder and squeezes it out, slow, both hands, and the movement lifts her chest. The purple top strains. It shines wet and painted-on, her tits all but presenting themselves to the sun and to you, full and heavy with water running down between them, and she holds the pose a beat longer than she needs to, because she knows precisely what she’s doing and has never once pretended otherwise. The black bottom sits low on her hips, water sliding down her stomach and vanishing into it, and she watches you watch that too.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she tells you, and her grin takes all the sting out of it. “Neither am I. That’s rather the point.”
She runs her hands up her sides, over the curve of her waist, and cups herself through the wet purple, thumbs dragging slow across her nipples. Her breath goes a little unsteady. The water is cold and her hands are warm and the sun is on her face, and the mix of it makes her squirm in the smallest way, a roll of her hips she doesn’t bother fighting. She’s not trying to finish anything. She’s just curiously, deliberately, waking her own body up, and letting you have a front row seat while she does it. Down and down, one hand traces, past her navel, fingertips tracing the edge of the black fabric where it hugs the swell of her ass before it curves between her thighs. She presses once, slow, through the soaked material, right against her pussy, and her lashes flutter. The sun keeps pouring down like it approves.
“This is what happened last time,” she murmurs, half to you and half to herself, hand still moving in lazy circles that keep her right at the edge of warm. “I followed something small and quick and ended up somewhere I had no business being. This time I followed the sound of water.” Her eyes come back to you through the spray. “And ended up in front of you. Funny how it’s always falling with me.”
She steps backward into the fall again, letting it soak her a second time, letting it plaster the purple flat to her tits and the black flat to the swell of her ass until there’s nothing left to imagine and she knows it. She tips her head back into the rush. Her mouth opens and the water fills it and she laughs, spitting it up at the sky like a girl who has never once in her life done as she was told.
When she comes back out, she sits on the slab of rock with her knees up and apart, forearms resting on them, chin on her wrists, watching you the whole time. Her pussy presses against wet black fabric, the material clinging to every fold of her, and the sun dries her shoulders while the fall keeps her soaked everywhere else. Her blue eyes have that glint, the one that means a decision has been made somewhere in her without consulting anybody.
“I stayed in one place for ages,” she says. “That was the mistake. Nothing curious happens in one place. So.” She stands, water sheeting off her, tits and ass and that shining purple and black all catching the light like she was built to be looked at and knows it down to her bones. “You can come back tomorrow. I might be here. I might be somewhere else entirely. Down some other hole, in some other water.”
She walks past you toward the trees, dripping, hips swinging, and she doesn’t look back. Alice never looks back. She just falls, and the falling is the whole game.
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