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Tomb Raider: Lady Croft
🕑 Added 2024-06-29 22:00:04 +0000 UTCI grew up in a pretty noisy household. I got used to tuning out distractions so I could concentrate on my work. I guess I got pretty good at it. I ended up overseas in Oxford, learning Archaeology, and there I was not short on nice, quiet places to study.
I suppose I fell out of the habit of focusing exclusively on one particular thing, because I could not concentrate at all with a hundred and twenty-five pounds of sex appeal sitting down across from me, looking at me and smiling at me and making every expression so goddamn sensual that I just wanted to be a court jester and get more of those heavenly grins out of her lovely face.
I had come to interview Lady Croft for my thesis. Well, I say come, but really I was brought there. Good stuff, as I didn’t own a car—how in the hell would I get it back to the States after I had my degree? Her butler picked me up.
I don’t have to tell you how grand her estate is. She’s thrown enough parties for it to make it into the society page countless times. Probably the only social functions where Jay-Z is as likely to be there as the Duke of Windsor. It’s as stunning as it looks in the paparazzi photos and social media posts. As we drove through the gate, I saw a few fans standing outside the bars. Imagine that. An archaeologist—a socialite—whatever Lara was, having fans who would show up at her house just hoping for a glimpse of her.
Fortunately, the grounds were so large that I wouldn’t have to conduct my interview with some creep looking over my shoulder. Not unless they had binoculars. And with the typically rainy British day and the mists hanging over the shoals… no, fjords… sorry, moors, I guess? I don’t spend a lot of time at mansions. The point is, I felt like I was in another world, closed off from everything ordinary.
To my surprise, Winston didn’t deliver me to the front door of the house… manor… whatever. Instead, he drove to another building, connected to the manor by an arched walkway. It was like a greenhouse… maybe a conservatory (sorry, my first mansion)… all made of paned glass looking in on an Olympic-sized swimming pool.
“Lady Croft is inside,” Winston informed me, getting out and popping an umbrella to hold over my head as he got the car door for me. “Going about her morning exercises.”
He led me inside—I felt a bit absurd, being protected by the mild drizzle, but also a bit grateful that I wouldn’t walk up to Lara Croft looking like a drowned rat. Inside the poolhouse (I guess it was), I heard the water churning, a raucous noise high above the dull patter of the rain on the glass. Lara was attacking the pool like a hated enemy—I only got a glimpse of her black bikini and tanned flesh in a flurry of bubbles as she stalked from one end of the water to the other.
I looked at Winston, a little embarrassed for him. I thought he’d have to raise his voice to bring Lara out of this delirium she was in, but when Lara swam to my side of the pool, she stopped on a dime, elbowing up to the lip of the pool and looking at me with about the greenest eyes I’d ever seen.
“You must be Mr. Jefferies,” she said, smiling in a way that just about made me tremble all over. “I hope you don’t mind the informality of it all. But good habits are so important, don’t you think?”
“I’d hate to put you out,” I said.
Lara kept looking at me—I’d almost have felt checked out, only she didn’t move her eyes from mine, just kept taking in my reaction, scrutinizing every minute change… I tried not to get flustered, but it was a tall order.
“Shall I bring out tea, ma’am?” Winston asked, and I could’ve socked him for interrupting. Then again, I suppose it meant I hadn’t lost the staring contest—though what I would’ve won, I had no idea.
“No need,” Lara said. “I made some iced tea earlier. My robe?”
Winston picked up her robe from a towel rack and she pulled herself up out of the pool. I couldn’t help but gawk. She had a body that was enough to put every work of art, every priceless artifact, every massive jewel she recovered to shame. She stood a good five foot nine and had long, wavy dark hair. No, not dark hair, black. Like the night sky on a starless night. It was captivating—somehow more alluring than a blonde or a redhead. She wore a black bikini and nothing else, the longest strands of her hair merging with the captivating lines of her bikini top.
Winston held out her robe. She slipped into it, but didn’t bother to tie it. It hung open, once she’d gotten comfortable in it, and there was nothing to stop me from staring at her low-cut bikini top or the bottoms that seemed barely there. I couldn’t imagine there was more than a strand of fabric in the back, supposedly covering her ass. What hid her crotch was, well, barely anything.
She sat down at a little table that overlooked the pool. There was a pitcher of iced tea and two glasses waiting for us. I wordlessly sat and Lara poured for herself.
“Say when,” she said to me.
She leaned over to fill my cup. I smelled a little chlorine on her and nothing had ever smelled so good to me. It was all I could do not to look down her overflowing bikini as she poured and poured and poured…
“Oops.” She righted the pitcher just in time to keep from overflowing the glass, although a little iced tea escaped down the sides.
“Perfectly alright,” I said, taking a handkerchief from my pocket and mopping up the spill.
She stared at the handkerchief with her lips pursed, her tongue prodding along the inside of her cheek as I folded it and returned it to my pocket. “Picking up a few habits while you’re in England, are we?”
“Well, I did come here to learn.”
“Perhaps it’s in the blood. I understand you’re from something of a regal family yourself.”
“Yeah, a couple hundred years ago…”
“A hundred years ago is nothing in archaeological terms,” Lara reminded me.
“Yes, well…” I got out my satchel and opened it up, unloading my notes and pocket recorder onto the table. “Speaking of archaeology…”
“No camera?” Lara asked.
“Pardon?”
“I thought you would bring a camera. To record the interview. Most men like being able to watch me whenever they want.”
“I, uh…” I cleared my throat. “I will be able to listen to you.”
“Whenever you want,” she prodded, her eyes sparkling.
“Yes.”
“Then what do you want to hear me say?” she asked, slouching back in her chair, which did nothing to diminish her aristocratic attractiveness. I don’t think anything could—not when she was speaking in that cut-crystal accent, staring at me boldly with those jade eyes…
I looked through my notes, pretending like I just wanted to get everything in order, while really I couldn’t think of a thing about Lara besides how intoxicatingly beautiful she was. “The Dagger of Xian,” I seized on, my research flooding back into me. “Many people thought it was a hoax before you discovered it. Would you mind telling me why you believed it was real?”
It went on like that for about half an hour. I tried to be a good interviewer, but I don’t think anyone could’ve been worthy of matching wits with Lara. She was clever, urbane… endlessly witty and knowledgeable in equal measure. She was effortless in holding my attention, as no doubt she could dominate any conversation, and I just tried to keep up with her and not embarrass myself too badly.
About halfway through the interview, she shrugged off the robe, leaving it padding the metal patio chair she sat on, and put a leg up on the armrest of her seat. Then kept on going over her life and accomplishments like she wasn’t a living pin-up model, holding herself in a way that was more arousing than the most debauched nude.
She had an hourglass figure, her waist so small that I could’ve gotten my two hands around it, but above and below she was just about more woman than I could believe. Her breasts were big and firm and decidedly real—not those motionless basketballs some women adhere to their chests, but barely sagging either. I imagined that without the bikini, they’d hold up as juicy as a girl of eighteen.
Below, her waist swelled into a solid, muscular pair of hips. The thong didn’t leave much to the imagination—it was only the way Lara held herself, poised yet casual, that kept me from being able to memorize her ass the way I got to know her creamy thighs. As shapely and toned as the rest of her long legs. And from the way her labia outlined itself against the material of her thong… well, I’m not so experienced a cocksman that I had any preference there. What was I going to say, that it was great how big it was, or small it was, or anything? No… but it was pretty sweet to know it was there, nonetheless.
“Hand me that comb,” she said, a crisp assertiveness suddenly filling her voice, and I picked up a comb from the table and held it out to her.
She took it with a smile that made it all okay how I’d done as she asked without so much as a please, then started combing out her hair.
“I really should shower—rinse off all this ghastly chlorine—but I am enjoying this chat. And trying to keep it going through a wash would just be too much, now wouldn’t it?”
“I could always wait in your parlor until you’re dressed,” I suggested, eager to please.
She cocked her head. “And how do you know I have a parlor?”
“I mean…” I glanced around at the poolhouse. It was a poolhouse and it was bigger than my dorm room. By a lot. “Why wouldn’t you?”
“You might be surprised by what a woman like me doesn’t possess. I can live quite a spartan existence at times.”
“That’s a shame.” I knew she was about to ask why. “A woman like you deserves the best.”
“A woman like me doesn’t deserve the best, she takes the best. And everyone thinks I deserve it after the fact. How old are you, Mr. Jefferies?”
I about blushed. “Twenty-three.”
“Young for a postgrad.”
“I skipped a few grades.”
“I never had much use for school myself. I preferred to find out things by doing, not by being lectured.” She leaned forward to pour herself some more iced tea and her breasts settled on the edge of the table.
I was suddenly very aware of my hands on the table. Touching the same surface as that plump pair. Nothing to stop me from reaching out and gripping them except for a swarm of consequences that seemed very far away at the moment. And they seemed very worth it. Some people say that all you need is a handful, but I have some big hands.
“Is there anything you’d like to ask me? You are keeping me away from my shower, after all.”
It just slipped out: “Are you single?”
