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Of all her very many siblings, Francesca probably knows her brother Benedict the least.
As far as she can tell, it is not for any discernible reason, nothing has occurred between the two of them to cause bad blood, or draw them apart. Benedict is not the cause of anyone’s ire, could never be, except for maybe Anthony’s, and even he has softened significantly towards him since his marriage to Kate.
Francesca is just of the opinion that the two are diametrically opposite characters. Benedict is loud where Francesca is quiet, bold where she is shy, or outspoken where she’s thoughtful. Benedict, even unwillingly, often attracts attention, finds himself in the middle of it despite his better intentions, meanwhile Francesca would do anything to permanently fade into the background, content with being unknown, gladly is but an observer even amongst her own family.
It is for this reason, and this reason alone, that if one were to ask Francesca anything about her brother, say, his present endeavours, his passions, or his dreams, she would not have a single clue. Her husband, John, would have a much better idea, she is sure, given they have often shared a drink at the men’s clubs whenever work brings either him alone or with Francesca in tow to London.
Which is exactly why one single interaction with him on their mother’s birthday ball, the year of Francesca and John’s first wedding anniversary, has her so perplexed it is a wonder how she does not make a fool of herself out of mere naiveté and ignorance.
Her and John could never miss out on this event, her mother already suffered greatly by Francesca’s moving to Scotland and were she not to attend, she would surely be upset. However, not only they saw it fit to honour Violet with their presence, considering how, much to Francesca’s dismay, John’s cousin, Michaela, also offered to come down to Mayfair for her. She had just gotten back from her recent trip to the Cape of Good Hope and, already planning the next chapter of her travels, this time to southern Europe, wanted to make the best of her time in England by reconnecting with the Bridgerton family, who she so enjoyed meeting the year before during her brief visit to London. Michaela especially yearned to reunite with Eloise, inseparable as they were during her time in Scotland, and always up to no good.
The mere addition of Michaela to their travelling party unnerves Francesca just a bit. It is not that Francesca doesn’t like Michaela, it is impossible for one not to like her, with her charming personality and never-ending tales from her travels, which heartily entertain even the most closed-off of characters. If anything, she is glad for that diversion of attention away from herself, and John always relishes the familiarity of Michaela’s presence when they are away from home, having been so close to her for all their lives.
Francesca is just… Rattled by her, that is all. With just one look from her wide, dark eyes, she is quickly under the impression that Michaela can read right through her, that every one of Francesca’s thoughts is also now hers by association, and Michaela’s openness, her heartiness, which cannot but impress everyone, intimidates her to an immense degree.
Thankfully, with so many of her family around for the occasion, Michaela hardly focuses on Francesca at all. Such is her instant connection with her siblings, one would think Michaela secretly has Bridgerton blood. For this reason, Francesca thinks she can relax a little, away from Michaela’s perceptive gaze.
Benedict, however, seems like he has relaxed too much tonight. Evidently, he has had a little too much to drink. The new social season must be treating him abysmally, if one were to judge from the way he’s over-indulging in the liquor like a man searching for the answers of the world’s oldest questions at the bottom of his glass. Their mother has been keeping a stern eye on him all night, worrying he will make a fool of himself in front of the entire ton, not that it would be a first for him, though, as Francesca guesses.
Quickly enough, Colin takes notice of Benedict’s inebriated state. Slipping away from Penelope for just a short minute, he joins Francesca and John at the corner of the ballroom that they have inhabited and gladly let Benedict take refuge in, to avoid any and all attention to his person, just to delight in teasing him a little.
“For how many social seasons do you plan on hiding away, brother?” Colin asks, and Benedict immediately groans.
“For however many are needed for the mamas to forget my eligibility,” he replies, taking a sip of champagne.
Colin smirks. “Come now, would it really be so bad to sign your name on the dance card of a debutante or two?”
Benedict squints. “Yes, I believe it would.” Another sip. Francesca glances at the quickly draining liquid on his glass.
“You did not seem so bothered by the prospect at the Masquerade Ball, if I recall correctly.”
Benedict’s eyes bore into him. “Your wife seems to be looking for you.”
Colin takes one look around, spots Penelope instantly, giggling with Eloise near the refreshments table. “I believe she is not.”
“Oh, I believe she is.” Benedict practically shoos him away ungentlemanly before Colin attempts to respond, and then he quickly retreats to their hideaway spot. He attempts to take another sip from his glass, but Francesca is quicker, stealing it from his hand with one swift movement.
“No more of that,” she explains.
Benedict gives her a betrayed look. “Why have you suddenly become Mother?”
“The situation has called for it,” she smiles sweetly, glancing at her husband for support.
John smiles, too. “Your brother only jests, I am sure.”
“Oh well, he jests too much. He was not laughing last year, when all of the mamas were on to him as well,” Benedict pouts.
“His newfound marriage status makes the jesting all the more tempting for him, clearly” John responds.
“Believe me,” Benedict says, “were the ladies in the room more interesting I would have no problem dancing with them.”
“Whatever is wrong with the ladies, Mr. Bridgerton?” Michaela inquires after imperceptibly joining their corner, some time over the course of this conversation, apparently having completed her turn about the room with Kate. She slides in next to Francesca with ease, linking her arm with hers. Francesca blinks at the sudden contact, yet Michaela simply beams at her.
Benedict frowns at her, his eyebrows furrowing quizzically. “I am afraid I simply have too little in common with them,” he states.
Michaela smiles devilishly. “If that is the case indeed, then I believe it is hardly their fault now, is it not?” she asks. Francesca quickly averts her gaze, her cheeks reddening as if she was caught doing something she should not have. “Besides,” Michaela adds, “you have not given them a chance to prove themselves.”
Benedict cocks his head at her. “Believe me, Miss Stirling, if the rules of propriety were more lenient I would be giving them plenty of chances.”
“And what is it that limits you so, Mister Bridgerton?”
At some point during this interaction Francesca’s brother seems to have located yet another champagne glass, one that he downs before Francesca gets the opportunity to remove it from his person. Benedict thinks for quite some time, the party nearly thinks this conversation has ended for his lack of a response, but soon enough he does offer it.
“Maybe,” he says, “we all preoccupy ourselves too much with the prospect of marriage. Maybe the debutante system is simply too outdated. Are we really still supposed to value young ladies’ suitability for marriage based on the height of their headdress, or the off-white colour of their gown? Maybe, just maybe, many of us would benefit by opening our minds to the possibility that there are other, alternative ways for one to seek… Companionship , between any kind of people, without the need or even the want for a wedding to transpire between them. After all, why should the union between a husband and a wife be the norm? What about other unions? What about other options ?”
And that, Benedict’s answer, is the source of Francesca’s confusion.
Companionship? Between any kind of people?
Other options?
Benedict’s disdain towards marriage immediately followed by the suggestion that perhaps it is not one’s only option is what strikes Francesca as the oddest.
As far as she knows, companionship , especially the one that is most intimate (and which she suspects Benedict might be alluding to), can only properly take place within the context of marriage. For it to occur outside of marriage, is to be considered immoral and harmful, especially for a lady, whose reputation in society is currency, and of the utmost value.
Francesca is not blind, however, to the many pastimes of gentlemen. The company they seek after dark in the more obscure parts of the city could hardly be a secret. However, she always assumed that these endeavours were of no business for a lady, as she understands, they merely occur for a man’s… bodily needs, therefore possessing no real value, no proof of them being significant in any way whatsoever.
With that in mind, she does not think that Benedict with his loaded statement referred to that necessary kind of companionship. Francesca believes that he must be referring to a different thing entirely, a concept that is fully foreign to her, one that perhaps her mind cannot seem to grasp. She wants to ask Benedict to elaborate, confirm her theory of this maybe being something unsuitable for her ears, after all men so rarely concern themselves with a lady’s opinion. The question is at the tip of her tongue, burning to be given voice, in an effort for her to solve this enigma her brother has presented her with, however she does not manage to ask, because Michaela is too fast to agree.
“On that, Mister Bridgerton, we seem to be in perfect agreement.” Her eyes glint in the low light, the smile adorning her face entirely too mischievous for Francesca to comprehend. She glances back-and-forth between Michaela and Benedict, notices the congenial nod he gives her, as if a silent conversation has transpired between them over the span of a minute.
Michaela understands as well, then. So, it is only Franscesca who does not.
No matter.
Quickly enough, Francesca decides that whatever it was that Benedict declared just now is maybe something she would regret to discover, were she to inquire about it. Her mind, that is, the mind of a lady like her, may indeed be too fragile for this concept he proposed. And after all, her brother is too much of a mystery to her, it has been so since she was little, and apparently he must remain that way.
— — —
It would be a lie, however, for Francesca to say that she doesn’t think back to this interaction often in the days that follow. Time and time again, she carefully considers the course of their conversation the night of their mama’s ball, pondering exactly what it was that was said, and exactly what it was that Benedict said as a response.
If she is honest, she marvels a little at her brother’s ability to be perfectly understood by both Michaela and John, despite having said so little and of so little consequence. Were someone listening in to their discussion, they would have surely not suspected any subtext to Benedict’s carefully constructed response, or if they had, they would chalk it up to the drunken musings of a drunken man. And yet, both Stirlings easily read between the lines, easily grasped that Benedict was in fact serious about this, no questions asked and no elaborations needed.
Francesca longs to read between the lines, as well. She longs to understand , if only so she can have a piece of her brother’s mind just for once.
That being said, she does have the feeling that this is not something she should inquire to her husband about. He did follow the entire conversation comfortably, did not look lost for even a second, and therefore he must know , whatever that may be, but she does not want to preoccupy him with her innocence. And frankly, much to Francesca’s dismay, broaching the subject with him, for some reason unbeknownst to her, makes her awfully shy. She may be a perpetual wallflower, but shy, she does not like feeling.
She must, consequently, go directly to the source. And since she does not want to confront Benedict, he is, after all, a man, she must ask Michaela. Surely her unabashed honesty will be of much help.
The opportunity to ask arises three days later, during a promenade. Francesca was desperate for the outdoors, she so enjoys it when the sun is out, and since John was due to be away all morning for work, Michaela promised to accompany her.
Conversation always flows easily between the two of them. Michaela never lets any topic run dry, a clever remark or an innuendo always in hand, making Francesca laugh without effort. And Francesca herself, when with her, allows her humour to shine, because Michaela very much appreciates any effort of hers to come out of her shell, reserved as Francesca is.
This time, however, Francesca is quieter than usual. The questions that have been occupying her, swimming in her head laboriously since that night force her to hold back, and as much as she wants to torture Michaela with them, as much as she wants to be rid of all the wondering, she can’t think of an appropriate way to bring up the subject with her. She prefers to let Michaela draw on and on about the gossip of the ton or whichever idyllic city she next wants to visit, instead of sharing a piece of her mind.
At some point, Francesca’s horrific inner battle about whether or not to just ask miraculously solves itself, because Michaela brings it up herself. She has thankfully not noticed that there is something troubling her, so to her a mere query about Francesca’s brother seems natural or innocent enough given their closeness.
“Your brother seemed very agreeable the other night,” is all Michaela states, aggressively ripping Francesca away from her jumbled thoughts and pulling her to the present. She turns, spares a careful look to her companion, who’s looking back at her cheerfully, a smile teasing the corners of her mouth.
Francesca’s heart hammers against her ribcage. “Which brother?” she asks, stupidly, just so she can delay the flow of this discussion as much as she can muster.
“Benedict, of course,” Michaela clarifies. She inches closer, lacing her arm through Francesca’s own.
Francesca feels the tips of her ears grow hot. It always unsettles her when Michaela breaks into her personal space, initiating contact.
“He certainly needs to cut back on the champagne,” she states, shaking away feelings of discomfort. They are simply but two friends, out on a promenade, to get some fresh air, discussing trivial lady business. They might as well be debating the latest trends in embroidery patterns. No reason for her to feel embarrassed.
“Liquor is always a pleasant addition to a social event,” Michaela comments. “Liquid courage, do they not call it? Some could certainly use it.”
“Not when some threaten to ridicule themselves.”
Michaela chuckles, a velvety sound against her throat. Francesca briefly wonders if there is anything Michaela does that is not meant to be charming. “Benedict hardly ridiculed himself that night, I assure you. He is naught but a pleasure to be around,” she says.
Francesca frowns. Her gaze drifts off into the greenery of the park. “He is certainly… liberated. Being the second-born son with no responsibility to the Bridgerton name, especially since Anthony married, has surely freed him from any serious duty a gentleman can have.”
She feels Michaela’s eyes burn into her, but she refuses to cross them. “It is always refreshing to hear of people who are unburdened by duty. No other kind of freedom tastes just as sweet,” she says.
Francesca is certain all blood has rushed to her face. She is also certain Michaela can notice, practically hearing the mischievous smile when she speaks.
The question escapes her lips before she has a chance to withhold it. “Are you, too, then?”
“Am I what?”
“Unburdened by duty.”
This time, Francesca sneaks a look at her. Michaela has her head cocked to the side, grinning at her naughtily.
“My dear Francesca,” she responds, her voice low and honey-sweet, “I am nothing but the mere cousin to the Earl of Kilmartin, born only seven minutes after him, second to everything except maybe my wickedness, which is notorious and unmatched. I have never been burdened, not a day in my life.”
“And marriage?” Francesca asks.
“What about it?”
“Is that not… a burden?”
Michaela chuckles again, and then winks at her. She really winks. Francesca fiddles with the frilly trim of her morning gloves, her palms clammy with perspiration.
“Not for me.”
Michaela gestures at them to sit down at a nearby bench, shielded from the sun’s glare. Their chaperones, that is, two maids from Kilmartin house, idly trail behind them, and Francesca gets the uncomfortable feeling that she is being spied on. She hopes the members of her own staff show them some discretion. Because at long last, Francesca plans to broach the heart of her confusion.
“How does that work, exactly?”
“How does what work?” Michaela raises her eyebrows, and Francesca snorts, however unladylike of a reaction it may be.
She is sure Michaela is acting obtuse on purpose. Another one of her ploys to drive Francesca out of her shell.
“You know what,” she retorts.
Michaela grins. “I am quite afraid I don’t, Frannie, you must tell me outright.”
Frannie . Francesca shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “How are you, Michaela Stirling, cousin to the Earl of Kilmartin, second to everything but your wickedness , unburdened by marriage, while all the other ladies of the ton, including me, consider it the condition that makes or breaks our womanhood?”
A weak draft of air blows in their direction, making a few strands of Michaela’s coily hair undo themselves from her intricate updo. Francesca is briefly overcome by the urge to wrap her finger around each curl, just to see how it would feel if she crossed into her personal space for once.
Michaela ponders a little before she responds. “My womanhood, or any lady’s, for that matter, is not made or broken by our willingness or its lack thereof to marry. Long ago I freed myself of the burden of marriage, accepted that it is something I truly do not seek, and in my case I was fortunate enough to be blessed with a family that wished not to impose on me. I understand that is something that not every lady can afford, monetarily or emotionally, it is a rather uncommon predicament I find myself in, but I will revel in that blessing all I can.”
Hesitantly, Francesca thinks she is finally starting to understand. In disbelief, she mutters: “Is it marriage that you do not seek, or just the company of men?”
She considers her question again before she lets Michaela reply. “Forgive me for my directness,” she continues, speaking hurriedly, “after that discussion with Benedict I was left under the impression that there are other forms companionship can take, and I will not lie to you that impression confused me rather much, so I assumed that maybe your issue is not with the institution of marriage, like Benedict’s may be. I am aware, however, that this is a rather serious accusation to direct to you, unpromptedly, so I apologise if I forget myself. I assure you, I know not what I am talking about, and you best ignore me if I overstep.”
Francesca awkwardly crosses and uncrosses her arms at her lap, smoothing out the pale blue silk of her skirt, at the lack of something better to do. Michaela watches her carefully, smiling.
“My clever friend,” she exclaims. “Never apologise for overstepping, not to me.” Francesca offers her a weak smile back. “Besides,” Michaela adds, taking a breath, “if you must know, yes, it is indeed the company of men I do not seek. Marriage I am not against, were it, of course, to be available to people like me. Benedict and I are in total agreement about the limitations society introduces, for no apparent reason, really. Companionship, love, can be of many forms, it is a very versatile thing, and I was still a child when I discovered that a gentleman has nothing of real value to offer to me. I did not have the vocabulary to explain it at the time, of course, but times fortunately have changed. And my travels have proven to me that I am hardly alone in these musings.”
“It is not a lonely existence, then? Living like this?”
Michaela lays her hand on top of Francesca’s, squeezing it lightly. “It would be lonely had I not accepted myself. Denial, to me, is one of man’s most dangerous vices. If you can live your truth, if the circumstances allow it, you must do so, however daunting it may be at first.”
Francesca nods carefully. This conversation feels bigger than her, it is as if a whole new world has expanded right in front of her, a world whose existence she was fully oblivious to up to now. She does not know what to do with this newfound information. She understands , she finally does, but the knowledge scares her. Her instinct is to shy away, not out of rejection for her friend, but out of uncertainty. Out of fear.
It seems that every new discovery Francesca makes, every new realisation, every novel chapter in her life, is more daunting than the last, intimidates her more than she could ever admit, so much so that she is unsure if she will ever be able to know everything there is to ever know. She never particularly cared about such endeavour, she was content to live in the shadows of her existence, she is but a fleck of dust in the grand expanse of the unknown, but every new experience proves to her that there is more . And slowly, then, she realises that living within the known confines of herself is not always enough .
The times are changing, Michaela was correct, and what the modern world is in need of perhaps is a modern lady, one who does not stay within familiar boundaries, but expands beyond them, in an effort to grow, and to learn. But how does one even begin to comprehend this? How does one keep up with the ever changing, ever turning world? How does one make peace with everything they once thought was not even an option?
Michaela studies her. “I have intimidated you.”
Francesca shakes her head. “No, I assure you I would not have asked were I not able to accept the answer. It is just…”
“New?”
Francesca sighs. “Yes. New.”
Michaela laughs. She stares off into the distance, at the people mingling with each other, strolling lazily about the park. “The great thing about people, the wondrous thing I have discovered while abroad and have been fascinated by all my life, is our innate ability to be similar , despite our great array of differences. Every single need of ours manifests itself in a completely different way depending on the person, the culture, or the rules of every society, but at the end of the day, our desires, our hopes, our dreams, are disarmingly alike . Do you know how marvellous this is? How comforting? To know that one is truly never alone in whatever it is they feel?”
“And intimacy?” Francesca cannot believe herself for asking. Wherever she gets the courage from, she does not know, but suddenly she feels like she can ask Michaela anything , because she will answer it in her usual, uncomplicated manner.
Besides, she may not have been taught much about human relationships, or whatever it is that marriage entails, but the one thing she has been told since when she was old enough to comprehend it, is that intimacy , the kind that transpires between man and wife, is only to transpire between man and wife. As a married woman, and after everything she has been told these days, she now suspects that this is nonsense, the act is purely physical, the rule arbitrarily placed by society, because no one dictates the degree of familiarity between two people before they go about doing it, but still. There must be other hurdles, were a man not to be involved. Hurdles of a physical nature. Sue her for feeling a little lost… Mechanistically speaking.
Michaela mocks gasps. She turns to look at her. “ Intimacy ?”
Francesca holds her gaze intently. “Companionship is one thing, but that must not be all there is to it, am I correct?”
“Yes, you are correct. That is not all there is to it.”
“Then what more is there?”
“Francesca, I am wicked, let us not be mistaken, but even I am not equipped to teach the matters of the bedchamber to my cousin’s wife.”
Francesca’s cheeks redden. She smooths her hair down her shoulders, tucking some flyaway strands behind her ears in embarrassment. “That is not the reason I ask,” she attempts to explain. “I simply wondered about the… physicality of such an act. Were a man not present. Forgive me for asking, I do not know where my sudden untowardness comes from.
Michaela giggles. Francesca is sure there is no blood left in any of her limbs, rushed as it has to her face in its entirety. “All I will say, and I think it best to leave it at that, is that there is not a single thing a man can do that a woman cannot do, or do even better. Pleasure is pleasure, and I highly doubt most men are capable of offering it to women properly.” Michaela winks at her again, before standing up, settling her shawl over her shoulders. “Come now,” she says, offering one hand to Francesca, beckoning her to join, “let us head back before it gets too warm.”
After that, Francesca stops her questioning completely.
— — —
Needless to say, Francesca’s newfound discoveries swirl about her mind all day. Her questions are all answered, that is certain, but she now feels more lost than she did before. She doubts she offers pleasant company at the moment, and her actions that same day prove it.
Firstly, she hardly speaks to Michaela as they make their way back to Kilmartin house. She is not rude, of course she speaks when she is spoken to, but Michaela must have sensed Francesca’s awkwardness because she hardly says a word herself. Francesca greatly appreciates her for it.
Then, she profoundly struggles responding to John when during dinner, he asks them both about their promenade. Once again, Michaela has to come to her rescue, and after exchanging one odd look with her, she puts herself in the position of replying instead, musing about the weather and the fine state of Hyde Park. Francesca doubts she uttered a single word all evening.
Lastly, she is forced to evade telling the truth to her husband, when again, as they get ready for bed, he inquires about her day. She does not lie, not exactly, she simply skirts around actually telling him what is on her mind, not because she wants to, but because she is unsure how to go about discussing what their main topic of conversation was when outdoors. Surely, Francesca thinks, John must know about his cousin, after all Michaela did say her family has been deeply supportive of her, but what would be the point of telling him? To what end should she say she concerns herself with Michaela’s… tendencies ?
No. She must not tell him, at least not yet, not until she has made sense of her own feelings toward the subject. After all, she cannot pinpoint why their conversation affected her so greatly. Attempting to bring it up with John would surely confuse her further.
Two hours later, her husband is fast asleep at her side, snoring lightly, and yet Francesca just cannot seem to find sleep. Her mind is a bottomless pit, it tortures her with thoughts and questions of the kind she cannot provide answers for, and no matter how badly she wants to turn it off, to cease her brain from racing as it does, she cannot do it.
She flips and turns between the sheets, trying to get comfortable, trying to make sense , but she struggles. She does not get out of bed, does not want to rouse any of the staff, after all there is nothing they can do to help her. Eventually she just gives up, sure it must be well past one in the morning, and that sleep will never cross her.
Instead of continuing to fight it, Francesca turns on her back, stares up at the high ceiling, and indulges .
She thinks of Michaela, out and about on her travels, visiting some foreign land, enriching her mind, linking up with people who do not speak her language. She thinks of her participating in intelligent conversations in crowded rooms, with interlocutors that share her desires, allow themselves similar liberties.
She thinks of her charming her way through some luxurious ball, completely ignoring, apparently, the presence of eligible men in favour of the ladies. The ladies who easily fall for her wit, merrily participate in her flirtations, enthusiastically allow her to pull them into darkened corners, or isolated gardens, and kiss them senselessly.
She thinks of Michaela shamelessly, provocatively breaking these very established rules of English propriety, without care of damaging some debutante’s reputation because a woman’s honour may not be so easily debauched by the attentions of another woman, it may not exactly work like that for them as it does for men.
More importantly, she thinks of Michaela, home from her latest journey, sharing her tales from Europe with Francesca, teasing her with tantalising details, leaving out the risqué parts, because “a woman does not kiss and tell”.
She thinks of herself, cheeks flushed, eyes wide with curiosity, as she begs Michaela to tell her more, inform her of her conquests, explain to her exactly how she does it, how she wins over the ladies, how she seduces them, touches them, kisses them, satisfies them, please, Michaela you must tell me, tell me something wicked, tell me how it works .
But suddenly, at some point in this vivid fantasy, Francesca is not the one merely asking, she is the one being taught.
Because in her mind’s eye, Michaela somehow suggests she show her, if you are so curious, dear Francesca, I could always show you, I could always teach you . And Francesca is unable to reply, is unable to do anything besides consent , desperate to find out, desperate to know everything about the lady’s guide to seduction, desperate to feel whatever it is Michaela’s companions must also feel when her attention is on them.
She sees herself being dragged away into Michaela’s quarters in the Scottish Kilmartin estate, vast rooms, with walls the colour of emeralds and mahogany furnishings, rooms that smell like her, vanilla and something else, something intoxicating, whiskey perhaps.
She sees Michaela locking the door, no one will ever find out, John is away on business, the staff knows well to be discreet , instructing her to sit down at the edge of her bed, closing in on her, asking her again and again if she is alright with this, instructing her to say so if it simply gets too much, if she wants Michaela to stop, as if Francesca could ever want her to stop, she has been unable to stop thinking about her ever since the Dankworth-Finch Ball, about how her smooth skin would feel under Francesca’s fingertips, how her full lips would expertly glide upon her own, how that woman could undo her, unravel her with just one nimble movement of her hand.
But before she has the time to reminisce about their first meeting, about Francesca’s juvenile stumbling over her own words upon looking at her, Michaela’s lips are on hers, and the world stops.
Francesca has not been kissed that way before, she did not know one can want, and thirst, and ache for more over a kiss , because Michaela kisses like the world is ending, like catastrophe is lurking just outside their doorstep, like Francesca’s mouth will be what saves her from disaster. Michaela’s lips slot against hers just perfectly, her hands snake their way around Francesca’s neck, tangling into her hair, beckoning her close and all Francesca can do in the drunkenly haze she finds herself in is kiss back, allow her mouth to be explored by Michaela’s tongue, allow herself to be taken so completely, to be transformed so easily.
Usually it starts like this , Michaela explains, and Francesca moans, the sounds coming out of her mouth foreign, and yet hers all the same. Michaela inches closer, her knees against the mattress, and Francesca sits back, resting at her elbows, imploring her to come closer, which Michaela does.
Is it okay if I straddle you? She asks, and God, what can Francesca say if not yes, yes please , letting Michaela’s thighs come up at either side of her, her bloodshot eyes, dark as the night, unwaveringly focused on hers. Michaela lets one hand trail up and down the bodice of Francesca’s gown, lavender purple, before moving over to the neckline, lightly grazing at her collarbone, her neck, her bust.
You can touch me too, you know, I do not bite , Michaela states, show me, show me how to touch you , is what Francesca replies before Michaela takes hold of her hands and places them on either side of her waist. Francesca happily obliges, familiarises herself with the shape of Michaela’s body, hyper-aware however of the layers of clothing separating her from Michaela’s skin, her soft, delicious skin, which Francesca’s fingers yearn to touch.
Is this all you do with them? She asks, and Michaela grins, with who? She asks, your conquests, Francesca explains. Why? What more do you want? Francesca’s hand searches for the bottom hem of Michaela’s dark blue gown, sneaking underneath when she encounters it, to be frank I thought there would be less clothing , and to this Michaela laughs, heartily. Francesca has never been so entranced by a laugh before, so warm, so innocent, despite her wickedness, this woman will be the death of her, Francesca got a taste of her and now she fears she will never be capable of pulling away.
Why are you in a rush? Michaela asks, carefully shoving her hand away, where it was brushing against her stocking-clad calf. We have barely even started , she adds, and from then on the real game of seduction begins.
Francesca’s body is a temple, that is the only way she can describe what happens next, and Michaela is its devotee. She kisses her deeply, softly, she touches her everywhere, carefully, attentively, as if one wrong move will have Francesca breaking underneath her fingertips, she takes her time undressing her, first her evening gloves, then her shoes and stockings, then she implores her to stand up, turn around, unbuttons her gown slowly, neatly folds it when it’s off and sets it aside with care, considerate to its fabric, sneaks up behind her as her lean, adept fingers unlace her corset, whispers sweet nothings into her ear, explains to her how badly she has wanted to do this ever since she met her, how hers she has been ever since she made her acquaintance, in her quiet, stuttering way that so endeared her.
She runs her hands over her skin, curious, imploring, touching Francesca over her chemise, cupping her breasts, kissing her neck, torturing her, making her beg for more while Michaela tuts at her to wait , and later to help her out of this gown , which Francesca does, eagerly, her fingers shaking with anticipation as they glide over the buttons, remove her corset and reveal her chemise-clad body to her.
Equals now in dressing, Michaela turns and faces her, inquiring with her clever eyes about the state of Francesca’s consent, which remains unchanged, naturally. A fingertip runs over the curve of Francesca’s neck, followed by her mouth, Francesca’s eyes falling shut in pleasure, how much longer are you going to tease me? , she asks, arms sliding around Michaela’s waist, nails digging into her exposed back when the latter bites at her pulse point as a response.
Tell me what you want , Michaela mumbles. Touch me , Francesca orders. Where? Her lover asks, you know where, she replies. I do not know unless you show me , and the roles have suddenly reversed, suddenly Francesca must do the teaching, and she gladly does it, gladly rids herself of her chemise with one swift movement, under Michaela’s hungry, blasphemous gaze, gladly takes hold of her hand, placing it between her legs, where her desire has pooled, dripping down her inner thighs.
God, Frannie, Michaela’s voice is a prayer, low, heedy, Francesca moans just at the sound of it, the woman’s fingers making quick work of her arousal. Is this what you wanted? Francesca merely nods, tell me, I must hear it , and Francesca’s voice is a whisper, yes, Michaela, please . Michaela’s middle finger finds its way inside of her, her other hand at Francesca’s chest, groping greedily, and Francesca sighs, being touched has never been so good, has never felt like this, her heart threatens to burst out of her chest.
Her hips grind over Michaels’s hand, riding her finger, searching for friction against her open palm, and when she begs for more , Michaela wolfishly obliges, stretching her open with a second finger as Francesca melts into her arms, whining quietly. Lie down , Michaela instructs, and Francesca does so, taking Michaela with her, forcing her to climb on top of her.
Michaela is a woman possessed, nipping at Francesca’s skin, kissing, licking, cursing under her breath, I have yearned after your body for so long , while her two fingers inside her guide her slowly to completion. Do you know how much I craved to touch you? She exhales, and Francesca’s hands are on her, take this off , she says, Michaela pausing briefly to do just that, hovering over her as she slides the chemise off her shoulders.
God, now it’s Francesca’s turn to curse, her turn to devote herself to her lover, and pray to her altar, to her miles and miles of exposed, dark skin, to her breasts, which she longs to kiss, salivates at the thought of taking them in her mouth, to her sex, which she needs to touch, needs to delve into, not knowing how she tastes will kill her.
Her hand reaches out to cup her, to explore her body just like Michaela explored hers, but before she endeavours far Michaela stops her, it is my turn now , she explains. Francesca does not get the chance to protest, cannot manage to complain about the unfairness of the concept, Michaela kisses her way down her neck, ventures over her chest, sucking lightly in between contented sighs before licking down her stomach, kneeling on the floor, and settling in between her legs.
All words die at Francesca’s throat, complaints long ago forgotten. The look Michaela gives her before diving in is sinful , downright offensive, and when Francesca intertwines her hand with hers, settling it over her ribs, nodding carefully to ascertain she is still on board, Michaela’s mouth is on her, hot and inquisitive and deliciously experienced, undoing Francesca with the swipe of her tongue.
Francesca sees stars, she is certain she will not last long, she gasps for more and more and more and God, Michaela please do not stop , as Michaela feasts on her like a woman starved. Francesca’s free hand nestles in Michaela’s hair, holding her close, while the other holds a death grip over Michaela’s fingers, locked in out of pleasure and need.
Francesca, moans, mewls, blasphemes in between her gasps, the pressure of Michaela’s tongue drives her half insane, she was born to do just that, devour Francesca whole, eat her till she screams, pleasure her again and again and again until Francesca’s bottomless appetite is satiated, and her legs can no longer hold her weight. But just when Francesca’s moans deepen, just when she is sure she is about to come, Michaela enters her with two fingers, curving upwards and yes, Michaela, yes, right there, I am so close, God, Michaela I am so close—
Francesca jerks awake suddenly, sitting up with a startle.
In the pitch black of the night, her eyes struggle to adjust, and she needs a whole minute before she can take in where she is, before she takes in the shape of her husband at his side of the bed, still asleep.
Her eyebrows knit together in confusion, or in horror, more like. She is drenched in sweat, her hair plastered to the back of her neck, and her dampened nightgown clings to her body like a second skin. Her breaths come out in short huffs, if she were to check her heartbeat she is sure she would find it racing out of control. Francesca fears to discover the state of her inner thighs, does not even want to think about the degree of which her… lucid dreaming has affected her, the slick that has collected in between her legs, screaming to be tended to.
Francesca wants to get up, wants to run away, but cannot, will not, her legs refuse to carry her and she knows better than to rouse her husband, not now, not yet, when his cousin’s mouth she still feels on her.
She lies back down, gathers the blankets to her chest, eyes wide open once again and staring at the high ceiling. She searches within herself to find answers, to understand again, this time for an entirely different reason, but she fails to, each and every query of hers runs dry, dies down at her chest before she can even give it proper shape.
The only thing she manages to ask herself, the only question to come out of her endless, desperate introspection, is this:
What just happened?
No, seriously.
What in the world just happened?