‘You are about to enter Box.’

Donna looked at me, her mismatched eyes curious. ‘Explain.’

We were on a train, travelling from Bath to London. Donna had been invited to a prestigious London art gallery to join the opening of an exhibition by an artist she had shown some months before. Her boss had not altogether approved of Donna’s selection of this particular artist, whose work is representative and to some eyes, apparently, a little passé. To my own and Donna’s, it just looked good. Her judgement had proved sound because a substantial amount of the work sold and because her show had led to the one we were going to now. That meant the artist, Sheila Fennimore, was on her way up.

‘Isambard Kingdom Brunel built the Great Western Railway. Box tunnel was one of the major parts of the line and it is said that on Brunel’s birthday the sun rises in direct line with it and shines right through.’

‘Cool,’ said Donna.

‘Indeed. Now whether this is true or not, it’s still bloody brilliant.’

At that moment we plunged into the tunnel.

‘And why, pray, Box?’

‘It is named after a village nearby.’

Donna slipped her arm around my shoulders and pulled me to her. ‘You, College, are a bloody mine of information. Who needs the Internet when she’s got you? My little Wikidyke.’

‘Donna,’ I hissed. ‘There are other people on this train.’

‘No slouch at observation either. Fancy a drink? I feel like getting you a bit tipsy then having my way with you.’

God but she talks loudly sometimes. To my astonishment she produced from her rucksack two glasses and a bottle of Champagne.

‘I decided we should travel in some style, hence first class and bubbles. I know how bubbles tend to loosen the elastic of your otherwise impenetrable knickers.’

Since when had she found them impenetrable? Oh, yes, since about 9 am that morning. That was the most recent occasion on which she had breached my defences. Insatiable! But I was not complaining.

The train thundered through the countryside of Somerset, Wiltshire, Oxfordshire and Berkshire before arriving in London Paddington. She’d booked us a room at an hotel near the gallery and we took a cab; yet another indulgence.

‘It’s called a niche hotel, College. That means it’s small and ridiculously expensive. Nothing but the best for you.’

We checked in and went to our room.

‘Knickers off, darling. Donna wants a quickie.’

She pushed me onto the bed and with indecent haste slid her hands up under my yellow summer dress and hefted my knickers down unceremoniously. She undid her white button down and took it off, looking at me with undisguised lust. That always works for me.

She knelt beside the bed and pushed my legs apart with a hungry growl. She leant in, but I placed my palm flat on her forehead and said, ‘Donna, you haven’t even kissed me.’

She looked up. ‘No time for pissing about.’ She pushed my hand away and leant in again.

‘Donna.’

She looked up again, exasperated. ‘What?’

‘Do you think I might be a lesbian?’

‘If you keep fucking about I may never find out. Hold your tongue and let me use mine.’

And she did. So, as it happens, did I. When she had brought me close to the edge she’d stood, stripped her trousers off very slowly and then sinuously (have I used that adverb about her before?) slithered onto the bed. I spread her legs and feasted at the Y.

‘Time for a little tribadism, I think, College. No idea what it means but it sounds wonderful.’

She seemed to have grasped the essentials. Our pussies kissed deliciously and then, scissored, we rubbed, eyes locked, and after about four minutes all hell broke out.

‘Stone me, College!’ She was breathless as was I. ‘I must look that word up. It works for me.’

‘I don’t think you need to look it up. You seem to have the right sow by the ear.’

‘That sounds kinky.’ She gave a wicked grin. ‘Now, glad rags time. I trust you have brought the essentials?’

Donna loved watching me put stockings on. Showered and dried, both of which took longer than necessary, we dressed. I wore a black cocktail dress, one of her favourites and she wore mid-blue trousers and a cream silk camisole and looked far more feminine than she normally does.

‘No good looking at me like that. Just because I am not wearing jeans a t shirt that says ‘College’s Butch’ does not mean I have become all girly. This is business dress.’

‘Works for me.’

‘Oh, and by the way, yes.’

‘Yes, what?’

‘I think you might be a lesbian, given a bit of practice.’

The short walk to the gallery in warm sunshine and holding Donna’s hand was a pleasure.

It was 8 pm and the streets were quieter than during the rush of the day. We arrived at the appointed place more quickly than I’d have liked. I would have preferred to string it out a bit. I always felt proud walking with her and enjoyed a few stares, some curious, some clearly admiring her lovely, svelte figure. My enjoyment was not marred either by the little jewel that Donna had placed in my bum before we left for the viewing.

She had said, ‘Look after that for me, College. Keep it safe.’

Sheila Fennimore, whom I had not met prior to that evening, greeted Donna with a fierce embrace.

‘This is College,’ said Donna, her arm sliding deliciously possessively around my waist. ‘My lover.’

I swelled with pride.

‘Ah. The much-mentioned College. Pleased to meet you. Donna is my absolute favourite lady.’

‘Mine too.’

Donna swatted my arse gently. ‘Be silent, hussy. You’re here purely as an ornament.’

There was a large audience and the gallery owner, called Julian, introduced the artist and mentioned Donna’s role in promoting her. More pride for me. Formalities over, the viewing began with a lot of sage nodding of heads and even more champagne.

A hand caressed my arse. I didn’t normally mind when she did that, quite the opposite in fact, but since her hand was under my dress I was a bit concerned.

‘Nobody’s looking. I just wanted to feel those lovely knickers.’ Her finger traced the crack of my arse. ‘Chances are I’ll be having a poke at you later!’

‘Stop it!’

She tapped her finger right on the jewel and whipped her hand away and placed it on my shoulder. We strolled around the gallery and admired the work.

‘Donna!’ A tall, elderly man in a rumpled tweed suit approached.

‘What ho, Pinky. College, meet Pinky Bennet. He’s one of Sheila’s biggest fans. Pinky, say hello to my bird.’

Graciously, Pinky took my hand and kissed it. Old world charm.

‘Delighted to meet you, College. Donna has told me a lot about you.’ I have almost forgotten my real name. ‘She says you are an inspiration.’

‘She is mine.’

Pinky took my arm and led me to a picture. ‘Your Donna is trying to persuade me to buy this.’

‘This’ was a seascape on a grand scale. Waves crashed on beach and at the foot of cliffs. The sun was glimpsed through a break in lowering clouds. I stole a look over my shoulder and saw Donna watching me, her eyes smiling.

‘What do you think?’

 'Two things. The first is I like it but I reckon it would require a large room. It’s big and so is the subject. Second, I am no judge but Donna is. If she thinks it’s right for you then I’d go with her judgement.’

‘Then, my dear, I shall.’

He led me back to Donna. ‘Put a little spot next to the seascape, please my dear. Your lady has convinced me to trust your judgement. I must go and negotiate with the gallery owner.’

‘He fancies you,’ said Donna. Mind you, that doesn’t mean you’ve joined an exclusive club. Basically, if it's got tits and a recent heartbeat he fancies it.’

‘You do wonders for my ego.’

Julian the gallery owner caught us as we were leaving. ‘Wont you stay for dinner? I’m taking Sheila and few others to the Ivy.’

‘Sorry Jules,’ said Donna, ‘We’d love to but I have to get College home to bed. She’s got a bit of a fever coming on.’

As we walked back through the balmy evening I asked, ‘What did you mean about a fever.’

‘Just you wait and see,’ she replied with a mischievous grin. ‘I’ve a little something designed to raise your temperature.’

Now, I have often stated truthfully that Donna is androgynous. It is the sort of androgyny that emphasizes her femininity. The sight that emerged from our bathroom, back at the hotel, was far from androgynous. Her slender, coltish body was clad in a long, sheer black silk nightdress. She was all woman.

I’d wondered why she had told me to get undressed and showered alone while she watched the TV. I’d questioned why she wanted me in bed in my own dark blue nightdress.

‘Mind your own,’ was all she had said.

‘I thought I might show you that I can occasionally tart down to your level. Not exactly my comfort zone, as you know but a girl has to create the odd surprise, no?’

I don’t know if you have ever lain on your back with your lover kneeling astride your face, a sheer silk nightdress covering you like a widow’s veil as your tongue slithers between sweet lips. If not, try it. It worked for me.

As my tongue slipped between her lips and just before it pressed into her tunnel of love, Donna said, ‘You are about to enter Box.’