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nearing my opening, teasing me but not venturing closer yet. We both
knew we had time for this. Savouring the gentle lull before the fever pitch. A silent ballet morphing into a jigsaw of limbs, the pieces fitting together neatly as our lust awakened with all the
ease of familiarity, a sequence of movements that we had perfected over months of sharing a bed. I loved this part of it, the prelude. Like feeling the steady suck of the pulling tide before being
knocked by the roaring crash of a wave.
    I knew I still had to learn a lot about sex. Real-life sex, not the sex I’d read about in snatched glances at the pages of women’s glossy magazines that hinted but never revealed
enough or heard about in the playground from other girls who had been as ignorant as me, and inevitably, all of my unreliable sources spoke only of the love between a man and a woman. Even Joan,
Iris’s liberal grandmother, in all of her blunt stories had never recounted wooing or being wooed by another woman, although I often wondered whether something more than Joan ever admitted
had occurred between her and the beautiful flame-haired woman who had discovered her outside the Trocadero.
    The light breeze outside picked up and the window pane rattled, as if even the elements were following the course of our lust. A gentle gust blew into the room and I felt the cool kiss of night
air against my slit, a damp breath of air caressing my open thighs. I was lying on my side, one leg straight, the other linked over Iris, my knee at a right angle bent up to her waist and her arm
around me, her hand stroking over my flank and down my waist and around the curve of my arse. I twisted on my hip, tightening my grip on Iris’s body and widening the gap between my legs,
letting my cunt spread open.
    Iris’s fingertips journeyed between the valley of my buttocks, feather light. Her touch was tentative, a promise that one day she would venture inside me there, fill my hole with the
velvet of her flesh. Each time she glossed over my pucker I arched my spine like a cat’s, ever so slightly encouraging her to push harder, to press her finger inside me now. I stopped short
of asking her for what I wanted though. The words formed in my mouth like sawdust and floated away, unspoken.
    The pace of her sweeping hand quickened. Her fingers clenched in small, juddering bursts – in out, in out, open and close – and I knew this meant she was climbing higher, nearing the
crest of her appetite. She craved for more.
    Iris’s desire fuelled me. Her need was like the current in my ocean. Hearing her soft cries, the in-breaths that caught in her throat and came out in a whisper of sound like chiffon
falling through the air, made my heart thrill and my quim slick. I thrummed, pulsing with a swell of barely contained need that spilled from me in wet kisses and juice dripping down my thighs and
fingers that held onto her too tight. I was an overripe fruit, breaking through the skin, seeping want.
    My fingers travelled over the curve of her mound until I found her entrance and circled her nub. Her clit was hard, already erect, and felt even hotter than the fiery surroundings in the heart
of which it dwelled. I drew closer to her centre and Iris’s whole body stiffened and exhaled.
    ‘Oh,’ she sighed.
    I stalled for an instant. I was too fast, too eager. I allowed my mind to wander for a moment, finding a place of calm to pause within. Always, when we made love, there were brief epiphanies,
stretches when it felt as though we were melded in one, both of us connected like strands of the same coil.
    Between those flashes of connection were spells like this when I retreated from my body to my thoughts. All kinds of things danced through my head during these intervals – the lewd and the
banal, dreams and memories. Tonight I imagined the pair of us on a stage, through the eyes of a watchful audience. The velvet milk of our skin, unbroken by the restriction of costume.