“Do you suppose I should do the lavender perfume? Or the rose?”

“Whatever you think is best.”

“I feel as if the rose will make me seem too easy, you think? The lavender is more subtle… oh, but Pearl, darling, you know I can’t do subtle!”

Pearl sat upon the edge of Georgia’s bed with her hands folded in her lap, watching the arch of Georgia’s back as her lover leaned over her chest of drawers; in only a shift and stays, Georgia squinted into her small mirror and applied her makeup. Though she spoke as boldly as always, Pearl could not help but perceive a certain bite of morbid anxiety in her tone.

It had been a scandalous discovery, the first time Pearl had seen Georgia’s collection of makeup. Her old friend revealed herself to be a vapid woman with a piece of everything, even very expensive, very disgraceful things— pearl powders and liquid rouge, not to mention more perfume than Pearl could ever hope to understand (though those had become moot after her marriage, what with the fish scent). It had only been through Pearl’s good breeding and propriety that she refrained from asking if Georgia intended to paint herself like a common whore.

But how long ago it was! How things had changed. Now, Pearl watched Georgia roll a red sponge across her lips with only the ache of anticipation.

“Should we eat before we go?” said Georgia. “Did she say if she’ll treat us to supper?”

“I don’t know, dear.”

“I get the impression that she’s a rude host.” Georgia patted the rouge across her cheeks. “We should eat something here. Oh, Pearl, you ought to paint yourself, too! She’ll hardly recognize you.”

Georgia was only joking— but Pearl, fancying the notion, went to join her all the same. Pearl let slip tense huffs of breath as Georgia wiped her cheeks with cold cream. Her heart skipped a beat at Georgia’s touch, her twinkling brown eyes.

The strangest thing was… as of late, such a state of excitement had become commonplace for Pearl. She had noticed it, first, upon borrowing a volume on Greek and Roman art from her father, intended as supplement to Ianthe’s gift. Pearl was sitting in her room, all on her own, and thumbing through the inset, marbled pages. With her face nearly pressed to the page on account of the dim light, she made boring progress through so many engravings of male faces, with their high cheekbones and strong-set jaws— only to have her breath at once wrenched from her body.

It was a sketch of a nude Aphrodite, seated, with the folds of her half-drawn garb drawn down her legs. Pearl was transfixed by the engraving, gaze frozen at the folds of her muscular stomach, the hidden dip of her hip bone. Pearl laid herself down and drifted to sleep imagining such a woman making love to her on that mythical isle from the vampire’s dream…

The thoughts did not stop there. At random they would impose: when she saw a beautiful woman on the street outside her window, at illustrations in the newspaper, in the midst of prayers with the ladies of her temperance group. She found herself falling in love with every woman she saw, and the sorrow and injustice grew ever more. After all, if she should not have to consign her love to men, why should it only be reserved for one?

Pearl was too mortified to confess these feelings to her lover— at most, she informed Georgia of her having confessed their affair to Ianthe, and of Ianthe’s secret in kind. Georgia was not all shocked by the revelation of Ianthe’s preferences— Georgia, in fact, felt that Ianthe had been quite reckless in not concealing herself properly.

“It is only,” said Georgia, “because she is so wealthy that no one dares to speak against her. That, and they find the behavior amusing. They will not find it sufficiently so, ere long.”

Pearl made mention of the proposition Ianthe had made of the two of them. Georgia, of course, had scoffed at the woman’s impropriety to even suggest such a thing.

And Pearl had said, “She is only trying to be friendly, in her own way. It is not her fault that she was raised in such a heathen manner. I believe…”

Oh, the look that Georgia had given her!

“I believe it would be prudent for us to accept.”

“And what for?” cried Georgia.

“Because we are blind. Because we do not know how to proceed. And I would like to, very much— that is, if you wish to, as well. We would be able to learn much from her. We would be able to… love each other in the inn, at much less risk of discovery, under the guise of us visiting our dear friend.”

Georgia was upset with her, and several times inquired if Pearl were ill. Pearl stood her ground, though it hurt her to see Georgia so. After several days of stony silence, Georgia had relented to Pearl’s logic. To Ianthe’s ribald orgy they went.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit much?” asked Pearl, as she tilted her face so that Georgia could continue the assault of rouge across her cheeks.

“I’d say it’s not enough!” Georgia laughed. “I am the one who can see you, am I not?”

“Then, it’s not sufficient for you, either.” Pearl swiped the bottle of rouge from Georgia’s hand. It became a war of reddened cheeks as they applied one another’s makeup in a frenzy. By the end, they both looked veritably ridiculous; like painted ladies at the court of Versailles.

Pearl leaned forward to kiss her, but Georgia halted her with an arm.

Said she, “We don’t want to smudge it.”

Pearl nodded meekly. She moved to cover her face in shyness, but Georgia snatched her hand back.

“Georgia… may I borrow one of your dresses?”

The two of them walked outside, arm-in-arm. Two ladies with powdered noses,  in jewel-tone gowns, their necks and fingers sparkling, combs in their Grecian hairstyles. They must’ve made quite the sight, for in their nervousness they could not stop laughing. Once, Georgia nearly fell over, her high-pitched shriek startling sparrows in the belltower.

In but a moment, it seemed, they were entering Ianthe’s chambers.

Ianthe had prepared the room in anticipation; gone was the drunken squalor. The window was covered with dark cloth, and many candles and lamps were lit in consequence (Pearl could not fathom the cost). Ianthe waited for them in her masculine attire, her shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal dark hair on her forearms. Pearl, with a loose hand on Georgia’s elbow, sighted her friend, and nearly jumped with the shock of it all.

This… affliction of hers, it seemed, extended even to Ianthe. There Ianthe was, a hand on her chin, fingers curling to mask her smile, her legs spread carelessly. Waiting for them.

Pearl’s heart fluttered.

The two lovers stood anxiously before Ianthe, not daring to move or to speak. Ianthe, evidently, reveled in her teasing— she played with the silence, only letting her eyes rove across the two of them. Pearl fancied Ianthe spent longer examining her cleavage than she did Georgia’s; but there was no means of knowing for certain.

At last, she spoke, with the power of a bullwhip. “You dressed up for me.”

Pearl’s stomach flipped. Georgia nodded with a tight-lipped smile.

Said Pearl, “W-why, of course! There is no greater reason to dress finely than for… this. Do…” She fiddled with her ringlets. “Do you like it?”

Ianthe rose from her chair. She walked with a swagger, one thumb hooked through the waistline of her cossack trousers. Her body filled Pearl’s vision. “On you, yes. I would say so.”

Before Pearl could wonder what it meant— or question the blush hidden behind her rouge— Ianthe was turning to Georgia and extending a hand. “Lovely to see you again, Mrs. Cary.”

“Oh, please,” Georgia placed great emphasis on the word, “here, of all places, you may call me by my Christian name.”

“I would be honored to, George,” said Ianthe, who then kissed the back of Georgia’s hand. Georgia smiled in angelic sweetness, red smudging her teeth.

A moment later, Ianthe was upon Pearl again, and kissing her cheek. Her curls, right against Pearl’s nose, smelled of bay laurel. Her tone was so soft, Pearl almost thought she might’ve imagined the words. 

“Good girl.”

It would not do to get right down to business— this, like anything else, was a social gathering. Even Ianthe was not totally without shame. She returned to her armchair and the lovers enjoined on the couch. In the midst of idle conversation, the servant brought drinks. Pearl had so well picked up Ianthe’s habit of not acknowledging the woman that she was part-way through a sip of gin before she noticed that she was already naked.

Good God, the woman was large. She was like three statues of Aphrodite: the same solid lines, solemn and unblemished flesh. She was shaved, pale and pink, with close-cropped hair— her breasts round with small nipples, her thighs like logs. She stood there, with all her six feet, wordlessly awaiting orders from her master, as if nothing was the matter at all!

Pearl hastily looked away.

Ianthe laughed. “You may stare, dear. That is the entire point.”

But Pearl could not tear her eyes away from the floor. “I-I don’t even know her name.”

“She doesn’t have one.” Ice clinked inside Ianthe’s glass. “She hasn’t earned it yet.”

Her friend was unbearably odd, sometimes.

“M-may we, perhaps…” said Pearl, some time later, “discuss what we will be doing, today?”

“Yes,” Georgia agreed, looking at Pearl with a burning gaze. “We simply must.”

Pearl fidgeted under the dual attentions of the two women; she felt that her dress must’ve been too thin, or her stays too tight, as she was so shivery and light-headed.

Said Ianthe, “Well, seeing as Cary has never been fucked well, and little Pearl not at all, I determined that we ought to start with a demonstration of sorts.”

Pearl let out an inadvertent gasp at mention of her name. 

Ianthe chuckled. “Yes— Pearl, dear, what would you like to see first?”

“F-first? Why I… anything at all, Ianthe, it is your invitation on which I am…”

“Do not tease her,” Georgia said.

Ianthe turned all her focus to Georgia— oh, how her eyes struck Pearl speechless, even when turned on another! “I will leave it to you, then. Fingers or tongue?”

Georgia, despite her comparative composure, turned scarlet. Still, said she, “Fingers.”

Ianthe did not undress— she merely stood and beckoned for her servant. The woman bent over so that her behind was facing Pearl and Georgia, and her face was hidden. Ianthe stood over the bowed form with a hand rather strongly grasping the woman’s ass cheek. She then, very authoritatively, began to stroke the woman’s cunt and explained, with lurid detail and demonstrative gestures, how best a woman ought to fuck her own sex.

Pearl did not feel as if she were in the room; at most, she was a fly upon the wall. Ianthe was speaking, and she was speaking about fucking, but Pearl could not hear. Whenever she managed to tear her eyes away from the servant’s cunt she would look at Ianthe, and all thoughts would cease.

What an agonizing, humiliating loop to be locked into! As Ianthe demonstrated (her servant near-silent throughout), Georgia laid a hand on Pearl’s knee. The closeness…

“Of course, none of that matters,” said Ianthe. “What you first need to know is your place.”

Georgia kissed the nape of her neck. Pearl was but a mass of fire. Georgia’s mouth drifted towards Pearl’s cheek, which she also languished on, a pepper of small, kitten-like kisses. With a quavering voice, Pearl asked, “I thought you did not want to smudge it?”

“Oh, who cares?” said Georgia, and pushed Pearl onto her back.

Pearl laughed, and writhed in mock struggle as Georgia pinned her down, kissing along the path of her neck, across her covered breasts. Georgia loosed the lacing on the back of her gown, which fell out around her. Pearl was so lost in the moment that she did not at first see the dark form that approached, and stood above them.

“Cary, I have a gift for you.”

“Huh?” Georgia straightened up in right bewilderment.

“If we are to continue—” Ianthe’s servant approached with a wrapped parcel in hand. “I want you to wear this.”

“I should not think we would be wearing anything…” Georgia took the gift with both hands— it was quite a large package— and untwined it. Then, she began to laugh.

“What is it, darling?” Pearl struggled up to her elbows, still pinned beneath Georgia’s legs.

Ianthe had given Georgia a full set of men’s attire, down to a navy waistcoat. Georgia, so shocked by the gift, let it slip from her hand, and topple from her knees onto the floor.

Ianthe’s tone was sour. “I expected you to be pleased.”

“Why would I—?” Georgia gasped with laughter. “Miss Zannouli, I am a grown woman. I’ve no interest in playing dress-up.”

“Is that what you fancy I am?” said Ianthe. “A woman playing dress-up?”

“Oh, take no offense!” said Georgia. “It is only that I had not considered that your manner of dress was so tied to your lusts. You may wear what you please, Miss, but it would only look foolish on me!”

Said Pearl, “It is a kind gift. But Georgia is so gorgeous… the very picture of femininity. It is not at all like how it is with you, friend. She would look so silly, we would never be able to get anything done between peals of laughter!”

“Let us not speak of this again.” Ianthe kicked away the clothes, her boot leaving an ugly stain across the fine white shirt. “You are correct. You ought to wear nothing. Strip.”

Georgia frowned, an expression that only Pearl caught. Pearl was all too anxious, however, to continue on with the pleasure, and begged Georgia to help undress her. Georgia did so with a frantic devotion; Pearl, layer by layer, stripped down. She was ever too aware of Ianthe’s eyes upon her, which made the moment all the more scandalous. When they were both down to their stockings and stays, standing together in the center of the room, Georgia reached both hands behind her back, and undid her lacing. Pearl gasped at the sight of her lover’s body, silhouetted beneath her shift, in the low, luminous light. She was like an angel, something beyond words! Pearl was nearly brought to tears.

The mood then paused for several minutes, as Pearl got stuck in her stays.

The others gathered around her back, struggling to detect the source of the obstruction. Georgia, once some extra hard tugs did no good, attempted to approach the problem like a puzzle, carefully undoing the pesky knot, until Pearl cried out in frustration for them to get it over with.

Ianthe’s lover pulled out a pair of scissors. She set the silver blade between the lacing, the tip biting into Pearl’s back, and sliced the string.

Her bodice fell to the floor, and Georgia pulled her shift off over her head. To make up for her embarrassment, Pearl let her hair down so that it covered her breasts like she was a modest painting of a sea nymph. She looked at Ianthe, who looked at her, and managed to find words amongst a riling sea. “What did you mean, before, about tongues?”

“I will show you,” said Ianthe, to which Pearl’s body clenched. 

Ianthe reached out and laid a hand on Pearl’s bare shoulder. A tremulous power ran through her entire body, as if she were being possessed once more.

They were ushered into the bedroom. Georgia tackled Pearl across the large, white bed and locked their lips together. Their legs entwined, and Pearl found Georgia’s tongue down her throat. Is this what Ianthe meant? It felt good, it felt right— but no— she was supposed to teach Pearl.

Pearl hummed encouragement, the sound tangible inside her lover’s cheek, until Georgia at last reached down and began to stroke Pearl’s clit. All those dreams, wet and sweet, came to fruition. They coalesced as Pearl spread her thighs, and allowed Georgia to insert her finger.

Georgia teased her so. “I suppose you are enjoying this.”

“I love you.”

It was not entirely like her dreams— Georgia was not the dark, domineering figure she imagined in the safety of her mind. Georgia was a joyful lover; she was playful, she was conscientious. She was so kind, and her touch so gentle. Pearl rode and rode the wave, grinding against Georgia’s finger, for what seemed an eternity.

Then, someone brushed her hair back, and Pearl’s spine arched with sudden arousal.

“All well and good—” Ianthe said, “but why don’t we switch?”

Pearl cried agreement into Georgia’s mouth.

The hand on her hair tugged. Pearl moaned, and closed her eyes. Georgia left her embrace, leaving Pearl’s naked body cold, and braced with anticipation. It was Ianthe’s turn to touch her— Ianthe, who knew so much about this art, who would not be gentle, who would never hesitate to take her.

“Please…”

Then, a hand larger than her head cupped her breast.

Pearl feared that her disappointment was obvious— she slumped into the strong hold of the servant. When her eyes opened, Ianthe was standing above the bed, looking at her. Georgia, as well.

“Oh— oh, I thought…”

Ianthe touched Pearl, then— but a single point of contact, not even stroking, a hand laid on her forearm. Georgia’s questioning gaze became irrelevant. The woman pinching her nipple might as well have been air. It was only Ianthe who was real, only Ianthe who could cull the sensual ache that had brought Pearl to this place. Ianthe’s touch called in the cavalry; only under her would fulfillment come.

Said she, “Are you alright?”

Pearl realized she was crying. “Y-yes— I am— I am overcome, but I am enjoying myself. Yes, I would like to switch.”

“Good.” Ianthe snapped her fingers. “Cary, over here.”

“Do you think women are dogs, Zannouli?” said Georgia.

“If you’d prefer to watch your woman be tongue-fucked by another, you are welcome to. Otherwise: come now.”

Georgia gave Pearl a peck on the cheek, and then rose. Pearl watched the path of her bare back until the servant began her work. She dragged Pearl’s legs forward so that they dangled off the side of the bed. She knelt on the floor and put both strong hands between Pearl’s thighs to push them open. Her face hovered just before the bush; the woman’s breath shook her curls.

“And who is to say that I wish to make love to you?” said Georgia. “We hardly know each other.”

“Why are you so cold, now? It is only for fun.”

“I am here for Pearl’s sake, not yours.”

“The more you protest, the lovelier you become!” laughed Ianthe.

Pearl swallowed. “Go along.”

The woman pressed her face between Pearl’s thighs, and began. Her tongue slipped between Pearl’s folds, deeply wet from Georgia’s machinations, and stroked. What a shock, when she had grown so used to only the sensation of her fingers! Pearl grabbed the woman’s head, the fuzz of shorn hair between her fingers, and held on.

Behind her was Ianthe and Georgia, still argumentative. Ianthe held Georgia by the shoulders, and was leaning in, staring deeply into Georgia’s eyes. Georgia was not speaking, and Ianthe’s voice was so low that Pearl could only catch but fragmentary phrases.

“… and you will enjoy it very much, every moment, and feel no need to fight, for I know what is best…”

It was only the woman’s strong hands that prevented Pearl from wriggling away from the lapping at her cunt. She writhed against the gentle assault, and the more she moaned, the faster the woman went. Why, Pearl wondered if she even needed to breathe! Surely not, with the speed and passion with which she lavished Pearl. Was this what Ianthe taught her lovers? Was this done the way that Ianthe enjoyed most? Pearl sought a mental image of Ianthe in her place— not the pathetic, squirming thing Pearl was, no— and this shot up her arousal. She did not realize, at once, that she was begging this woman— this stranger— to plunge deeper.

Georgia had succumbed to Ianthe’s reason. Her smile was gone; Ianthe was playing with her body. Dark hands tweaked Georgia’s nipples, which made her twitch but not cry out. Ianthe’s head of curls rested in the crook of Georgia’s neck; Georgia’s eyes were like pinpricks, and she stared out at open space, not seeing Pearl at all.

Ianthe snapped a finger. Georgia slumped, and Ianthe caught her, swung up her legs and laid her down opposite Pearl on the bed.

Pearl was now lying on her back with the woman’s thumbs pressing into her pelvis. She watched Georgia be laid out, her back perpendicular to Pearl. Ianthe swept over Georgia with a force like the wind, and hooked a boot on the corner of the bed. Georgia— who before had been filled with such protestations!— opened her legs without a word exchanged, and allowed Ianthe to fuck her with two fingers.

The force between her legs had become impossible to disregard. Up and up the sensation rose, and Pearl could do nothing but struggle to push the woman’s head in deeper. Her nipples were sore with constrained desire— and moreso as Ianthe grabbed at Georgia’s long hair and pinned her face against Georgia’s neck once more.

Pearl could not look away from the other women. Jealousy— what was supposed to be creeping and sickly— burned hot in her chest.

She yearned to be there. Not in Ianthe’s place— in Georgia’s.

Why could she not be the one lashing futilely under Ianthe’s skilled grip? Why not her, teased beyond the veil of shame, fucked so good she could only mewl? How she wanted her body to be there, so close, in Georgia’s place. She wanted Georgia to disappear from the room. She wanted Georgia to have never existed at all.

Ianthe raked her nails across Georgia’s body and sank her teeth into the woman’s thigh. A panel of her shirt had fallen open in the tumult; Ianthe’s chest was covered in hair, black curls forming patterns like her beautiful head. Ianthe buried her face in Georgia’s pussy, those glossy curls bouncing as Georgia twitched.

As Pearl’s indignation rose, so too did something else. Pearl came with her body still afire with jealous anger.

Ianthe’s lover (or, her lover for the moment, Pearl supposed) drew back. She looked Pearl in the eye. Where Pearl expected a demand of reciprocation, there was none. The woman was mute. The woman was compliant. Pearl— now cold, when she had become so hot— laid a hand on the woman’s scalp. “Again.”

The day was spent in pleasure— with their only meals pussy, and only nectar whatever booze Ianthe had on hand. Pearl fucked to the point of exhaustion, all in the hopes that she would be able to lay with Ianthe— the goal, she soon realized, of this whole endeavor.

But the moment never did come— always, something got in her way. A proposition that Ianthe would not hear over the railing of her servant, a sensuous gaze interrupted when Georgia found blood on the sheets (it was not from Pearl’s virginity, but from Georgia having managed to injure herself in her drunken state). Pearl made love to Georgia and fucked the servant, and when Pearl became too drunk to continue, Ianthe let her lay on the couch and demonstrated use of a dildo with the others. Pearl wished she could remember it clearer, but it was all thunder and fog.

Pearl woke beneath a thick, warm blanket, cradling a body. She was in Ianthe’s bed, naked. When Pearl felt the soft flesh beneath her fingertips, her heart raced— but then her vision cleared and she recognized that it was Georgia whose body curled against hers. Bile rose up in Pearl’s throat.

Ianthe was resting on a chair in the corner, an ashtray smoking on her chest of drawers. Her servant knelt on the floor with her head to Ianthe’s knee. Ianthe idly stroked her lover’s hair with one hand, fingertips ghosting above the skull.

Pearl sat up, and pulled the blanket tight around her. Georgia groaned— recognizing the sudden chill— but remained asleep. She rolled over in the bed. Pearl caught a glimpse of brown— the bloodstains drying— and of red— a wound that scabbed on Georgia’s neck.

“Morning,” said Ianthe.

Pearl forgot the blood. Ianthe nudged her lover. The woman rose, put on a robe, and left the room. From the path of the sun on the floor, Pearl recognized that the sun was setting. The room sat, hushed and melancholy.

Though all other parts of her spoke of preternatural calm, Ianthe’s leg shook. Pearl loosened her hold on the blanket; it fell open. Pearl bared her nakedness to Ianthe, and Ianthe alone.

She made no comment on the act. Only her eyes drank in Pearl’s body, as naturally as one might gaze at a fine piece of art on display.

“Have fun?” Ianthe asked, at last.

“Yes,” said Pearl. “But I could do with more.”

“Another day, then?”

“Yes, please.”

Ianthe chuckled, as if she’d thought of something small and secret and deathly funny. “I live to serve.”

The servant came in with coffee. Pearl roused herself fully to the tune of a horrid headache, the likes of which she’d never known. Pearl and Georgia nearly stumbled to the floor, chugging pots of the stuff, chewing mint leaves as they dressed themselves and redid their hair– which dress had been whose, again?

Too soon, they were being escorted out of doors by the servant, for propriety’s (ha!) sake. Such an act of sin and debauchery, done so casually and without reprisal, would prove to be the beginning of the end, though few there knew it. In the end, it was to be the last night that Pearl had full governance of herself— assuming, of course, that she ever did.