November 13th, 2009


Irene was only in Paris for three nights, but in her absence Mary’s heart grew ever fonder. She loved Irene’s bold and adventurous spirit, her refined grace and sharp mind and the kindness and generosity with which she treated others. Irene was equally taken with Mary’s modest beauty, her quiet intelligence and the pride and strength with which she carried herself.

The women’s reunion at Briony Lodge was a heady one; their warm embrace quickly gave way to feverish kisses and before long they were in Irene’s bedroom divesting each other of their frocks and falling in entwined passion onto the bed.

Irene dragged her voluptuous lips down Mary’s neck and onto her chest, pausing to flick her tongue around her nipples until they puckered and hardened. She reached up and pinched the left one as she continued a loving trail down her stomach and then disappeared into a soft, light carpet of hair. Mary spread her legs and arched her back with a trembling sigh as two delicate fingers gently parted her swollen labia, and she gasped at the exquisite sensation of a wet mouth taking full possession of her.

Irene’s name floated from Mary’s lips in sighs while she undulated her hips slowly and deliberately to the rhythm of her lover’s tongue dancing inside her. When she entered into her climax it was with her entire being, her body and soul uniting in the triumph of womanhood, her soft cries reverberating like the refrain of an ancient tribal chant.

She was nearly asleep when Irene gently pulled herself from her arms to rise, wash and dress for her performance that evening. Tonight, she was making her much-anticipated return to the London stage, and though she had never suffered stage fright, she was nervously aware that Mary would be in the audience. There was no one she wanted to please more.

When Mary arrived at the theatre that evening, she was escorted to the highest and most luxurious box in the house, the one usually reserved for royalty and visiting artists. Her heart skipped a beat as the usher pulled back the curtain to reveal a cushioned, double-wide seat and a small table with a bottle of champagne, a crystal flute and a single red rose. She recognized Irene’s artistic scrawl on the envelope that read “For Mary,” and opened it with trembling hands:

My dearest Mary-

There is but one member of the audience tonight to whom I shall raise my voice—every note I sing tonight belongs to you, dear heart, in whose arms I feel at home and whose name rings like its own song upon my lips. I thank our Creator every day for leading me to you, for granting me the wisdom and the power to love your beautiful spirit in more ways than I ever thought possible.

Ever yours,


The lights soon went down, the curtain went up, and Mary closed her eyes, inhaled the scent of rose and basked in the dulcet tones of her beloved’s voice.

It was her twenty-eighth birthday.