I awaken in the middle of the night with an insatiable craving. As I sit up, the silk nightie slips against my skin, caressing like a thousand sensual touches. There’s dampness between my legs and an ache for the hand that should have been there. But there's only emptiness. For a moment I can’t decide where I am, though my eyes soon adjust to the darkness, and I recognize the familiar contours of my bedroom.

My husband is sleeping beside me. It’s the same dream again. I fall back onto the bed with a mixture of anger and disappointment. It’s so infuriating that this keeps happening, yet just as upsetting that it’s never real. My body longs for her touch, but now it has to settle for mine. Strangely, I never even consider waking my husband to ease my hunger. Whatever this is, it feels like something meant only for me and her. My hands drift toward my thighs, but I stop before they reach their destination. No. I have to wake up early tomorrow. I can’t lose myself again while thinking about her. It would be too much for tonight; I'm already exhausted. I try to fall back to sleep without thinking of her. An impossible endeavour.

My restless nights started not long after Stacy moved into the neighbourhood. I had never been interested in women. At least, I couldn’t imagine myself being attracted to them. Well, except for maybe one. I had this friend back in high school. She was beautiful and funny, always causing some kind of trouble. Something about her kept drawing me in; I yearned for her attention. No matter how desperately I tried to become her best friend, we never grew that close. I couldn’t name it then, but thinking back, I had a little crush on her.

One time, when we were hanging out in her room, she started tickling me. Of course, I had to fight back. We tumbled onto her bed laughing, trying to pin each other down, until she ended up on top of me. As we were catching our breaths, our eyes met. Our laughter faded, and we became frozen. Her knee was between my legs, almost touching my most sensitive spot. I was certain she was going to lean down and kiss me. I opened my lips slightly, preparing to welcome hers, but she abruptly climbed off me and broke the tension with some sassy remark. I played along, pretending nothing had happened, and we carried on as though the moment had never existed. That was my most intimate experience with another woman, and I quickly dismissed it as a fluke.

Not until Stacy showed up. At first, I was sure I had met her somewhere, but I couldn’t tell where. Then I realized she looked very similar to my old friend. The sparkle in her eyes, the way she played with her hair, her mannerisms. The resemblance was uncanny. And suddenly, that strange moment during our tickle fight came rushing back. The sensation it triggered in me was rather bothersome, something between curiosity and excitement. Soon I thought about other moments I might have deliberately left unnoticed. Lingering gazes of coworkers. Touches of friends lasting just a little longer than they needed to. My mind must be making things up. There’s no way I could have been that oblivious, nor that all those moments meant more. Yet they now all hurt like missed opportunities.

There is something about Stacy’s gestures that seems so feminine and erotic that my cheeks keep turning red whenever I’m near her. I hope she hasn’t caught on to that. It would be mortifying if she knew what kind of thoughts I have about her. She ended up joining my book club, so I had the chance to get to know her better. She’s almost fifteen years younger than me, single, and has moved into our little suburb alone, leaving the bustle of the inner city behind. She can be a little too mischievous for my liking, but besides that, she's pleasant to be around.

Apparently, her parents are quite well off; that’s how she could afford a house here on her own. This made some of the girls in the club envious. I pretended not to care, though I found myself wondering what it must be like to have that kind of freedom. Being able to get away from your life like that. The relationship with my husband has grown colder over the years, and my kids are getting on my nerves all the time. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family. I do. But the stagnation of everyday life is really dragging me down. It's difficult to accept that there is nothing more to come.

Stacy got to choose our newest book. To my surprise, it was a sapphic romance, and a rather explicit one. That novel shifted my feelings for Stacy from platonic affection into something more sexual. Each time I sit down to read it, I can’t finish without getting dizzy. Every page turn intensifies my yearning. The way the female protagonist falls for her neighbour and makes love to her often leaves me soaking wet. My thoughts always drift to Stacy, wondering how it would feel to be in a similar situation with her. I managed to initiate things with my husband a few times, but even as he was pleasuring me, I imagined Stacy doing it instead of him. No surprise that I’m having such arousing dreams about her. Although I feel rather guilty about it. I would never cheat on my husband, especially not with a woman, but this newfound attraction of mine is really testing my values.

I wonder whether the other girls of the book club are affected by this novel the same way as I am. The thought makes me smile. Wouldn’t it be exciting if our next club discussion turned into a heated lesbian session? Just imagine that group of neglected women, licking and sucking each other, steadily filling the room with their moans. Not that I’d want old Mrs. Gillis’s tongue deep inside me, although now that I think about it, it would be so nasty in the right way that it might just work. As I soon discover, that won’t be the case.

The novel receives a mixed reception. Some members praise the raw portrayal of the characters’ relationship, while others condemn both the subject matter and the prose. So much for my imagined sapphic get-together. Instead, I find myself in the middle of a passionate but civilized debate. As they say, reality is always disappointing. Poor Stacy. Having her first book selection cause such a commotion must be devastating. And yet, when I look at her, she seems to be surprisingly entertained.

My confusion must be written all over me, because as our eyes meet, she gives me a faint smile and a playful wink. I don’t have time to make sense of it; it’s now my turn to explain what I thought of the book. I tell them how deeply the intimacy between the two main characters affected me, and how exciting it was to read something so far outside my comfort zone. Naturally, I leave out the troubling desires it awakened in me.  As I speak, Stacy’s expression gradually grows more serious, and her attention remains fixed on me. I try not to make eye contact. Somehow, I feel naked, as if she’s reading my thoughts.

My enthusiastic review only makes the debate more heated, further widening the rift between the two camps. It takes quite some time before the room finally settles down. Much to the relief of the more conservative members, our next book selection is considerably more conventional. Soon everyone begins to leave. I’m reaching for my jacket when Stacy approaches me.

After exchanging a few pleasantries, she compliments me on my take on the story, and then unexpectedly, on me as well. She pulls me aside and admits she deliberately chose such a controversial book to make things ”fun”, as she puts it. She also tells me that she thought I was a boring suburban mom and apologizes for misjudging me. She teases me about how progressive I am for my age. Even though she’s practically mocking me, I can’t help but giggle. Then she mentions there’s a sequel to the book, and that’s even better. She’d lend it to me if I’d like it.

"Of course I want it!" The answer slips out of me a little too desperately.

Her warm smile makes my chest tighten. She suggests that we should go to her place right now. I say yes before I could properly think it through.

We walk together through the darkness toward her house, and I feel almost like a teenage girl on prom night. She lets me inside. Her home is typically suburban, but surprisingly tasteful. The interior is classic and warm, filled with greenery and soft lamplight. An entire wall in the living room is dedicated to bookshelves, filled with novels of all kinds. I browse them while she prepares tea in the kitchen. There are quite a few queer novels, most of them unmistakably erotic. I quickly look away when she returns with the tea.

We settle onto the sofa and make some small talk. My thoughts are racing so fast that I can barely keep up with our conversation. I take a sip from the tea to steady myself, but it doesn’t seem to do much. Then she asks what my favorite part of the book was. My mouth goes dry. I can’t tell her that it was the way the characters made love. But choosing some shallow part feels like betraying her trust. So I settle in the middle and tell her that the way the characters found joy in their relationship was the greatest part. She smiles and touches my thigh, telling me she loves that too. Her hand rests on me only for a moment, but it makes me tingle.

She asks if I want to know what her favorite part was. I nod. She leans closer and tells me that it’s when the protagonist confesses to her neighbour, that she likes her. I get the feeling that I’ve been led into an elaborate trap. Yet, I keep sitting there frozen, like a butterfly that has already been caught in a spider’s web, knowing that struggling would only get me more intertwined. I breathe heavily as I listen to her recounting that part of the novel.

The characters both knew something was happening between them, but neither was sure if the other felt the same way. So they kept going in circles, pretending that there was nothing. Then, when they were alone for the first time, the protagonist could no longer hide her true feelings, and her neighbour revealed that she felt the same way. They kissed and kept embracing, afraid that it was all a dream they would wake from if they let go. Their passion intensified as their bodies pressed against one another, steadily transforming their newfound bliss into shameless lust. Stacy's voice turns husky while she recites all the indecent things the characters did to each other. How their tongues desecrated their most sacred parts, the way their fingers challenged everything they knew about pleasure, how their lips broke taboos they never thought they would dare to. My heart beats faster and faster. I catch myself breathing in sync with Stacy, while her lilac fragrance envelops me. I realize too late that she's close to me. Too close. I want to stop her, but my body is not listening to my commands.

She kisses me. Then she pauses. I kiss her back. Then again, this time with a hunger that seems to contain all the tension I've been carrying inside me. Her lips are so soft and young, I can’t get enough of their taste. We slip our tongues into each other’s mouths, but before they can completely entwine, I get back to my senses. I’m a middle-aged married woman, for God’s sake! With a husband and kids! The whole package! Not some careless girl who could afford such affairs. I stop and break the kiss. My voice is shaking as I apologize to her, telling her that I can’t do this because of my husband. When she responds that he wouldn’t need to know, I don’t feel any better. But strangely, I can’t get up from the sofa. It seems my legs are not sure if I should really leave.

She sees my hesitation. She caresses my face and asks if I’m ready to prove to her that I’m not a boring suburban mom. I know I should say something, but I can’t. She starts kissing my neck and makes her way upwards to my cheeks. Her hand begins to explore my body, tracing along all the right spots, finally arriving between my legs. I want to tell her she shouldn’t do it, but she just reached my mouth with her kisses, silencing me with her lips. Her fingers are rubbing my most sensitive part. Even though I feel her only through my trousers, I can barely keep my voice from twisting in pleasure. I don’t know if I can say no to her anymore. The desire to explore this withered part of my sexuality overtakes me. Then, she pauses. I’m panting with open legs while she stares at me. I can’t even imagine the way I might look now.

She asks whether I still don’t want her to fuck me. This is it! My last chance to escape. All I need to do is say so. But I can't lie to myself anymore. My yearning is too much. I tell her I want it. For a moment, she doesn't respond. Only the heavy sound of my breathing fills the silence. Then she gives me a pitiful look; she thinks I don’t sound convincing enough. This impudent girl is really trying to get back at me for wanting to stop. But I’m too turned on to argue with her. I bite my lip while looking into her eyes. I say her name in a lustful tone, asking her to fuck me, like the woman did her neighbour in the book. Her expression is stunned. I might be a little more reserved than her, but I can also be naughty if I want to. A mischievous smile spreads across her face. She pulls me to my feet and leads me toward her bedroom.

We get rid of our clothes and continue discovering each other as we make out. I run my fingers over her fair skin, folding her firm breasts, squeezing her tight buttocks. Hard to believe mine were like these once too. In a sense, I’m about to have them again. She pushes me onto the bed and asks if I have ever been with a woman before. When I shake my head, there's excitement in her eyes. It reminds me of the look of the boy who took my virginity. It’s about to happen a second time. She says I don’t need to worry because she’ll show me everything, sealing the promise with a kiss. Now I really want to scold her for patronizing me, but the way she’s exploring body with her lips makes me realize I underestimated her.

Soon, her head is between my legs. Her mouth is circling around my vagina, giving it soft kisses, then burying her tongue into the folds. Although I’m usually quiet in bed, my voice erupts in a high-pitched tone. She giggles, then keeps playing with me, driving my excitement further. She jokes that I’m really soaking down there and hopes I’m not planning to drown her. I tell her that instead of making fun of me, she should be using her mouth for something else. My sentence barely ends before my words turn into moans again. She’s now sucking my clit, licking it; the pleasure is so overwhelming. No one has ever pleased me orally so well before. I stroke her hair, begging her to go on. Not that I'd need to plead. She's diligently doing what she needs to until it’s just too much. My body starts twitching while my voice fills the room. I explode. I involuntarily cling to the sheets as if I’m about to fall down from the bed, but she just keeps going, not giving me time to breathe.

Her tongue repeatedly disappears within my swollen vagina as she refuses to let me go. Then she slides her fingers in to ravage me from the inside. I’m repeating her name with religious zeal, praying to her to ease my shameful lust, while she drives me to climax once again. Oh God! It’s happening, more intensely than before. Praise you, wicked girl! For you keep making my body give in to you so effortlessly. As I’m shaking from the blazing heat inside my hips, she finally gives me mercy. She climbs on me, and I grab her, giving her greedy kisses, biting into her lip, whispering how wonderful she is. I can taste myself inside her mouth. The thought that I take pleasure from that makes me ache for more. For a time, she lets me shower her with my gratitude, but then she makes me stop. There is a better way to express my affection, as she puts it. I know exactly what she means. Then she adds a snarky ”wifey” before I could begin. That’s it. Now she’s going to get it.

I roll her over and lift her by her hips, pinning her to the bed. My sudden ferocity takes her by surprise, but she quickly relaxes. I tell her if she wants me to continue, she needs to behave from now on. She bites her finger and promises to be a good girl. She begs me to discipline her with my mouth; otherwise, she would never learn her lesson. I press my head between her thighs and begin repeating the motions she’s done to me. I experiment, paying attention to every vibration of her body to learn what she likes. She guides me, telling me that I’m close. Then, I hit the spot. The intensity of her voice increases, while her fluids drip in my mouth. It’s so intoxicating. I keep licking her, as if it were the most natural thing I could do. The muscles in her hips tense. I tighten my grip around her, not letting her slip away. I’ve never known there could be so much joy in what two women can offer each other. I’m glad that I can be a part of it. The way she climaxes is so satisfying. The soft trembles of her body, her pulsating vagina, her shaking voice as she tries to control it. I can't get enough of it.

We embrace, exchanging tender kisses. She asks me how I liked my first time with a woman. I tell her it was fantastic. But then I remember my husband. My ecstasy is quickly overtaken by guilt. I think of my family and my ordinary life. Lying here with her is so surreal, as though I’ve somehow stepped into an alternate version of myself. I glance at the time, and my stomach tightens. It’s much later than I realized. I should have been home by now. I tell her I have to go. She keeps holding my hand, but eventually her fingers loosen as I stand up. I dress and pause in front of the mirror.

The sight of my reflection catches me off guard. My hair is messy, and my makeup is all smeared. I quickly put myself together the best I can, but the result is less than desirable. She watches me with strange amusement as I hopelessly try to erase every trace of what happened. I can't let my husband see me like this; I hope he's already asleep. It's so embarrassing that I have to sneak into my home. The last time it happened, I was eighteen, and I could barely avoid getting caught. The mixture of shame and excitement feels surprisingly nostalgic.

She walks me to the front door and, just before letting me go, pulls me into one last, deep kiss. She tells me that she’s really enjoyed our little book discussion. She warns me that I should be more careful around people. Apparently, I’m far too obvious when I’m attracted to someone. It was a good thing it was her. Someone else might have taken advantage of me. How thoughtful of her… I lean in and kiss her, telling her that if I didn’t know better, I would think she's afraid someone might seduce me. She laughs and admits she would prefer to keep me all to herself. Even though I’m conflicted about what I’ve done, I find it difficult to leave. What happened wasn’t a mistake. She’s given me something I’d been longing for all my life without even realizing it. As I step outside, she calls after me, saying I forgot to take the sequel with me. After thinking for a moment, I tell her I’ll come back for it tomorrow. Then I add that I hope she’ll lend me some other books later, too. She smiles and tells me I can borrow all the books I want.