‘Ten years or more, I do all the fucking wedding photos, and ten times a year I do the swimwear.’

  ‘You don’t like the wedding jobs?’

  ‘I trained to be a pro photographer, and weddings are … bottom of the pile. Swimwear uses some skills at least. But the weddings pay the bills so I can’t complain.’

  ‘Local woman?’

  ‘Yeah, half caste, and way too good for me.’

  We laughed.

  ‘So what’s the schedule?’ I asked.

  ‘They know it’s you, and that you’ll shout, so you have a day’s rest booked, and they never had to pay the air fare. Get a tan tomorrow, rest, then we start.’

  ‘And the girls keep the outfits?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s normal, because what if a model has a disease? Can’t wash them and sell them.’

  I nodded. ‘Hopefully mine don’t have any diseases.’

  ‘You … doing all three?’

  ‘I am, yes, in turn. Sometimes it takes three hours.’

  ‘Then you’re better at it than I am.’

  ‘I had lessons.’

  ‘I could so with some.’

  ‘When we finish shooting, some lessons. And just so that you know, one wrong word to my girls and it’s going to hurt. And if some nude photos turn up someday, I’ll fly back and see you.’

  ‘I don’t try it on with models, and most of them are nuts or drugged up. And my girl would kill me. Literally, knife to the chest kill me – we get married next year.’

  ‘I’m going to do a cheap photoshoot for some Tourism Ministry guys I met on the way down.’

  ‘I can do that,’ he enthused.

  ‘Maybe on the day off. They have some smart hotel in mind, to share the costs.’

  ‘Set it up, yeah,’ he enthused.

  ‘Where are these famous rocks?’

  ‘A couple of places, all south of here.’

  Back in the room, the girls had woken and unpacked, and Ingrid came in for a cold drink.

  ‘Your room OK?’ I asked her.

  ‘Lovely, yes, be a good view in the morning.’

  ‘Girls,’ I called. ‘Can one of you sleep with your mother, and swap?’

  ‘No need -’ Ingrid began.

  ‘Girls, one sleeps with Ingrid, or I get annoyed. This place is safe, but I don’t like her alone.’

  ‘We do it,’ they agreed.

  I wagged a warning finger at Ingrid. ‘You stay safe, or I smack your arse.’

  ‘She will like that,’ the girls giggled.

  I hung up my clothes, but I was not the one to be photographed on this trip.

  Room service ordered – with beer and wine, and we sat and ate, a window open, but that was a bad idea and it was soon closed, a few large flying insects ejected by me; I was not sharing my room.

  ‘On the day off we shoot the tourism stuff. This photographer is OK, and he’ll do the shoot there as well. And he knows I’ll punch him if he treats you badly. But this is not a man that shouts at models anyway, and he’s getting married soon so he won’t ask you out.’

  Ingrid was tired by 11pm, and Frieda would sleep in with her, and that left Rita, who stood looking like she wanted to eat me.

  ‘Only us,’ Rita noted, whipping her clothes off.

  ‘Only us, so … what do you want, my lady?’

  ‘Massage first.’

  Face down on the bed, both of us naked but with the main lights out and the side lights on, I massaged the legs and worked up, brushing the pussy, onto the arse muscles – which for her were smaller than the average woman, up the back, a good shoulder and neck massage.

  Turning her over, I did the legs and the thighs, causing a moan, a quick tongue to the clit before I massaged the vagina walls, avoiding the clit.

  She bucked and rocked a little, and I kept going. The massage had used up more than forty minutes, and the pussy massage was heading for fifteen minutes already.

  Finally cumming to a loud moan, I eased my cock inside and just waited, waiting for her to catch her breath, soon a gentle motion as she gripped my shoulders.

  Speeding up, she was about to have a heart attack, and when I felt myself getting close I eased down and rested a few seconds, soon back to a slow motion, speeding up then slowing down, and she moaned loudly. It was a good job we were in a chalet.

  Getting close to finishing, I again eased slower, and we were both sweating inside the mosquito netting. As I finished she gasped, making me worried, and she flopped.

  Easing my cock out quickly, I turned her over and into the recovery position, checking her breathing and pulse. She was fine, just asleep.

  Easing under the mosquito net, I washed my cock and opened a fresh cold beer, sat in the dark naked for twenty minutes as I sipped the beer.

  Rita stirred, so I walked over and sat on the bed. ‘What … happened?’ came from under a mass of hair.

  ‘You passed out.’

  ‘I did?’

  ‘Yes, now drink some water and then sleep.’ I handed her water, wiped her pussy with a wet-wipe, and she slumped again, soon asleep.

  A final check of doors and windows, and I lay next to her under the mosquito net, the fan whirring, the air con quietly blowing cool air.

  It was cool not cold because I had set it to 27, up from 16 degrees.

  I woke as the light penetrated the windows, but there were curtains that could have been closed. It was now coming up to 7am.

  Easing out without waking her, I had a sip of water and made myself a tea, soon sat enjoying it. When she stirred I walked over.

  ‘How long did I sleep?’

  ‘From 11.30pm to now, 7am. Not so much.’

  She eased up, and she rubbed her pussy. ‘Still feel tingle,’ she said with a grin.

  Leading her by the hand, we showered, a cool shower followed by a few seconds of cold water to wake us, and partly dressed we sat with cups of tea.

  Ingrid and Frieda knocked at 8am, the four of us soon heading up to breakfast.

  Sat, Ingrid asked, ‘What did you do to my daughter last night?’

  ‘She passed out.’

  With the girls giggling, Ingrid professed her jealousy, and I offered to give Rolf some lessons.

  After breakfast we hit the hotel pool, some sun to get, the girls warned not to get burnt or the whole trip would be wasted. They had factor-thirty sun cream, and Ingrid would time it, front and back, bikinis to be moved every minute to avoid tan lines.

  Half an hour used up, and they hid under the sun shades, a cooling breeze felt from the ocean. But they were still a little brown from Jamaica, so this was a top-up tan.

  After lunch I noticed a wedding in progress, and they looked British. A guest had walked past chatting, and it was a Midlands British accent.

  White cotton clothing on, and I led the girls towards the wedding, the bride and groom about to be snapped as the guests - about thirty of them and all dressed smart, waited on the grass, huge bouquets of local flowers mounted in a few places, food and drink laid out on tables.

  I moved in behind the couple, the photographer lifting up to puzzle me. Walking forwards, I rudely moved into shot and behind the happy couple.

  The bride turned, and screamed, a hand to her mouth, the groom shocked.

  ‘Can we crash the wedding?’ I asked, waving up the twins, the guests now recognising us. I nudged the groom away twelve inches, and the twins wrapped themselves around him as I held the bride from behind, a wave at the photographer to take a snap as the guests all grabbed cameras.

  We posed, we got snapped fifty times, and then we moved around to the guests, shaking hands with the parents, one set from Leicester but living in Birmingham now, the happy couple now having the proper wedding snaps done.

  ‘We’re here for a photoshoot, swimwear,’ I explained to the guests. ‘We start tomorrow.’

  I posed with the girls, many of the guests wanting snaps, and when the happy couple joined us I spoke to the groom; he worked in a factory like mine, plastic pipes.

  Interested in the wedding photos, I asked after the cost and the number of prints.

  The girls had their bikinis on under their white cotton clothes, so I asked them to pose with the groom, James Bond babes on each arm, the bride not worried nor jealous – we had spiced up their wedding.

  Agreeing to meet in the bar that evening, we headed back to find Ingrid.

  That evening we joined a loud group of Brummies, natives of Birmingham with thick accents, many a rude joke cracked as the beer went down. Ingrid spoke to the two sets of parents about costs and arrangements, the twins chatting to a girl that had studied in Stockholm.

  Then the power went out, a cheer from the Brummies and a few rude comments, candles lit by the staff as it started to rain.

  ‘This is just like home,’ the groom told me. ‘Dark and wet.’

  The power came back on half an hour later, not just the hotel affected but this part of the island, the wedding party not fussed at all.

  The girls had to be up early, so I explained, and I told the wedding party to “keep the damn noise down”. Back in the room at 10.30pm, it was Frieda’s turn, not that I could tell if it had been Rita again.

  After a shower I started slow, a leg massage and neck massage, soon turning her over, inner thighs massaged, pussy sides massaged, and I dragged it out, forty minutes to the first loud orgasm.

  Cock inside, I repeated last night’s routine, speeding up and slowing down, and I felt her pussy muscles clenching my cock. I kept going, fast then slow, Frieda gripping my back at various points.

  I was working to a finish when she slumped, but I kept going and did finish, soon turning her over and into the recovery position, breathing and pulse checked.

  Room checked again, door and windows, cock washed, and I slipped into bed under the mosquito net. Laying there, a hand on her back, I could feel her breathing steadily.

  At 7am the light woke me again, and easing up I woke Frieda.

  ‘You OK?’ I asked.

  ‘Cock please.’

  ‘Oh right. Cock it is, madam.’ I eased over and knelt, jerking my cock for a few seconds till it was stiff, but since I needed a pee it was extra stiff. Her pussy was already wet, and I inserted easily enough to a loud moan, a moan which kept going, soon a clenching of her pussy muscles.

  ‘Wow, that was quick,’ I said as I started to thrust.

  This time I wanted to finish quickly, not ruin her day, and I did finish quickly in comparison, Frieda hugging me tightly for a minute with my cock still inside.

  Out the shower, we dressed quickly, chocolate ate with a hot tea for Frieda, Ingrid and Rita arriving soon after, work to be done.

  After a light breakfast, not many of the wedding party in yet, and after much coffee drunk, the minibus was waiting ready for us so we set off with bags, water, and some food.

  An hour later we arrived at a beach, the famous rocks seen, our photographer, Mickey, waiting next to a beaten-up old jeep.

  I shook his hand. ‘All set?’

  ‘Company girls are over there, that jeep, they have the clothes and the tick list, but it don’t matter, just that they like the negatives in sequence – some of the bikinis look alike. And to me they all look alike.’

  I met two French women, both in their thirties, and they were all about the business - and time was money!

  As a group we walked to the beach, a square of canvas walls set-up for the girls to change behind, not that they cared, but there were local laws to observe.

  The swimwear was in plastic packets, all the same sizes, small-medium, so it was a small size but a bit bigger. And all the bags had numbers and names on. “White-One-A” was first.

  The twins changed quickly, the bikinis a little tight, Ingrid doing the girls’ hair, but this was not about hair and faces, and two-thirds of the shots would have no faces at all.

  ‘Ah, good skin, good arse,’ a French lady noted, rubbing Rita in a way that was giving me an erection.

  ‘You … need more of a tan?’ I asked.

  ‘This is OK for white bikini, some are darker bikinis so lighter skin is better for them.’

  Twins posing, shots from the rear, front on, looking out to sea, and it was change time.

  An hour later, and I could see how boring this was, and tedious. But it was paying work, the whole point being the money.

  A break for lunch, the girls covered over for the half hour break, and we were ahead of schedule.

  One of the French ladies noted, ‘They pose well, no issues, some models – a bit stupid.’

  ‘You want me in some?’

  ‘Extra money?’

  ‘No, I pose for free.’

  ‘Some, yes, you are famous.’

  After lunch I posed with the girls, one on each arm, a few James Bond poses, the French girls liking it.

  To Mickey I said, ‘Leak that photo to the Press.’ I faced the French ladies and waited.

  ‘Yes, good, client is happy with this.’

  By 4pm we were ahead of schedule, time called, and I led the girls to the water, a swim needed. ‘Tired?’

  ‘No, that was easy.’

  ‘Not too hot for you?’

  ‘We drink cold water and pee four times.’

  ‘Drinking lots of water and peeing is supposed to be good for you, they say.’

  Out the water, we had a good look at the odd rock formation, Mickey joining us as he stood smoking, the French ladies gone now.

  ‘Got what you needed?’ I asked him.

  ‘Girls have the bodies and the skin, they pose well, so it was quicker than normal. At this pace we can drop a day.’

  ‘Should there be a make-up lady, lights?’

  ‘They knew it was the twins, simple hair and no need for make-up, so they skimped on it, and they asked me to get by with no lights. Easy enough so long as it don’t rain, 4pm finish.’

  ‘So they saved two extra staff?’ I complained.

  ‘They did.’ He rolled his eyes.

  Dried and dressed, Ingrid checking that we had not left anything behind, and we boarded the bus, soon heading back. Back in the room, I showered with the twins and we flopped on the bed, Ingrid off for a sleep.

  It was Rita’s turn to be with me, but I warned her – early sex and not too much, she had to work the next day. This she understood; she had a good work ethic.

  The next day we finished just before 4pm, and we were again well ahead of schedule, a little time spent swimming. Back at the hotel we bid the wedding guests goodbye, the honeymoon couple to remain on honeymoon.

  The following day was a new location, a small hotel with a small pool, lots of palm trees, and bushes with huge green leaves that appeared plastic to the touch. The twins posed in and out of the water, and when not posing there was a roof to shelter under from the sun, a bar to serve us cold drinks.

  And the roof was needed, the twins now going brown. They had not burnt yet, but any re-shoot in a white bikini might be noticed by an eagle-eyed magazine browser.

  Day four went off well till it rained, then we lost an hour, but finding a high roof the girls posed under it, lush green plants being the backdrop, green bikinis posed in as well as a few tiger stripes, the girls stood next to huge green leaves covered in water drops. It was all very “tropical”.

  Day five would be the rest day, and we would meet the tourism men with Mickey, and Mickey would negotiate a good rate for his countrymen. Well, he wanted a visa to live here permanently, so he had to be nice to them.

  The twins would be able to sleep-in the next morning, so that evening we ventured out to a reportedly posh restaurant for a meal, no one recognising us, the fish and crab sampled.

  I was now tanned, Ingrid was tanned, and we had adjusted to the warm and humid climate here. A call on my mobile, and the Interflora advert had aired, so Trish reported, the TV news mentioning it later. And poster sales were good.

  A check of the time, and I called Bob Turnball.

  He reported, ‘The public, they love it, and one of the guys in my office is planning on sending the unhappy face flowers to his girlfriend, but they’re not cheap.’

  ‘They’re available now in Interflora?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, and expensive, and Interflora warned all their shops that someone might ask for one. Fact is, the shops don’t do the flowers, not all of them, they come from distribution centres. They have a few hundred black flower arrangements made up, some flower that lasts more than a fucking day.’

  ‘Photo shoot here is going well, ahead of schedule, but we had some rain, lost an hour.’

  ‘You crashed some wedding?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘The Sun newspaper ran it, family must have sent the images. Or sold them.’

  ‘Not our copyright anyhow, and it all helps.’

  ‘I saw your girl play the piano, the Russian girl, with the BBC. It was on late, BBC2.’

  ‘They all play the piano well, speak six languages, all way smarter than me.’

  ‘They said it was aired in Sweden but also in Russia.’

  ‘Russia? I … don’t think she gives a fuck about the Russians, they beat her if she got a note wrong.’

  ‘I have another job when you’re back, Interflora Part 2.’

  ‘Do they have an idea what they want?’

  ‘Your character sends flowers to apologise,’ he laughed out.

  ‘That’s easy enough. But then I want to be mean to her again.’

  ‘They’ll do one a month for sure, an ongoing story.’

  ‘Find out if I’m allowed to send a cactus.’

  He laughed. ‘That might be a stretch, I don’t think they do cactus, and not one that looks like a dick.’

  Call ended, and back at the table, I told the twins and Ingrid, ‘Interflora went well, and they want more TV adverts.’

  ‘We can be in them?’

  ‘Not sure, it’s just Olesya, no need for a large cast.’

  In the morning we set off at a lazy 11am with Mickey, and we drove to the hotel in question, the twins now the proud owners of thirty bikinis each, so they had good sample to take to this shoot. I had bought swimming shorts that displayed the Seychelles national flag.