The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Marianne became aware of breath on her face. It was not something she had felt since David had gone and this breath smelt a lot sweeter than his. Marianne was not certain if she was dreaming. It would not be the first time that she had dreamt that she had woken up and yet in fact had dreamt on. If that was the case, she felt that her mind was doing a good job of fooling her; making it seem as this was real. Experimentally Marianne reached out her fingers towards the centre of the bed and they brushed against skin. She guessed that was consistent with breathing and in her mind smiled to think it would be scarier to have breathing and no person behind it.

Now Marianne wondered who her dreams had decided would be lying beside her. She realised then that she was naked herself, something that had been rare even in the early days with David. She put it down to her British sense of needing a decent nightdress in case she had to get up to deal with some crisis in the night. Her other hand confirmed that she had nothing on. For a moment she imagined that this was another of these situations in which her body was saying she needed more sex; some sex. She now ran her fingers along the unknown partner’s side. The skin was warm and smooth and that made her tingle. However, as her hand came down off what she imagined was the top of this man’s arm, her fingers came onto the yielding flesh of a breast and then quickly down to a nipple.

“Mmm.” Came from the other; Marianne could only imagine now that it was a woman; a naked woman lying in her bed.

Madly Marianne considered how Carmen might have got into her flat and come to lie with her in an attempt to suggest that they would be good together. Surprisingly, she felt no threat from that thought; she guessed because if that was the case the woman had made herself utterly vulnerable by being here naked. Marianne felt that this was not a nightmare and in fact it might simply be her mind checking up on how genuine she was to her liberal values. Marianne disliked hypocrites and, in turn, that led her to forgive Carmen; admire her even, for always saying what she genuinely felt.

Then warm fingers were gently stroking Marianne’s labia, going up and down in a delightful way. There were times when she had masturbated but they had become increasingly rare as the years had passed. This, though, felt different again. She wondered if it was because she did not know where the fingers would go next. Then the crook of a thumb nuzzled against the opening to her clitoris and she gasped. Marianne tried to keep her cool; part of her insisting that she stay in this dream just to get the mounting pleasure that it seemed determined to give her. Then, however, Marianne realised that her mound was smooth and then guessed that she was seeing herself as she had in the bath. For a moment Marianne’s body encouraged her to simply continue; let go to the delightfully probing fingers of the woman beside her. Then, however, Marianne insisted that this dream was impossible; she was embarrassed that she was seeing two women; two lesbians, making love to each other. They were entitled to do whatever they liked, but now she felt as if she was simply an unwilling voyeur. Tossing back the duvet, Marianne sprang from the bed.

Stopping as she reached the window; what had looked like blinds for a moment, resolved themselves into the old fashioned curtains she had kept. Rather nervously Marianne looked back to the bed, though still not certain if she was awake or dreaming. Steadily, however, she felt certain she had now broken from her sleep. What she had felt to be a duvet some moments before could be seen in the weak light penetrating from outside, as her sheets and blanket. Certainly there was no-one in the bed and definitely not a naked woman. For a moment Marianne felt a strange twinge of loss. Her body, it seemed, regretted that she could not have continued being toyed with, naked and with a woman who had felt good to touch, doing it.

Marianne went to the kitchen and fixed a hot drink to help calm her. She told herself that she was being foolish. It had been nothing worse than a nightmare; better in fact. She rationalised it by thinking that if she had been concerned in the day time about this mysterious black woman, then her dreaming brain was going to latch on to it. Perhaps it saw the best defence against Carmen’s sexual interest in her; the solution doing least harm and perhaps even a benefit to her friend, was to find her a sexy woman to partner with. She then realised that she just hoped that this Emmi would be the one.

Marianne awoke to find her bed in disarray. Her nipples and her sex felt sensitive. As she brushed away her hair from her face, she caught an aroma from her fingers and was put out as she realised it was the scent of sexual juices. Yet, there was something about them that was different to what she knew from the past. Perhaps her body was telling her, as she had considered the day before, that too little sex, even if self-administered, was featuring in her life. She could easily see how the imaginations, the fantasies that had filled her tired mind, had been stimulated by that. Marianne was irritated. She had thought she had ‘got over’ all the fuss of sex. Yet, she supposed with all of the uncertainty with Carmen, something in her mind was suggesting that while sex with a man might be done with, sex with a woman might offer what she needed.

As she headed to the bathroom and ran a shower, Marianne felt a little indignant. She was certain that she was straight. Carmen was a lovely woman, but, except, perhaps when she reached the outer limits of her fantasies, she could not envisage having sex with her. Then again, could she imagine doing it with any white women she knew? Surely that was the decider—if she fantasised over actresses, then she might believe that she was even a little bit lesbian. Saying that, though, Marianne knew that only a small fraction of the men she met would she ever consider being with. Maybe her lesbian side had not emerged because she had simply not met the ‘right woman’. As Marianne tried to conjure up what such a woman would look like, she found it difficult to envisage anyone except Carmen in all her forms. She abandoned the effort, imagining that, given Carmen was the only lesbian in her vicinity at present, it was natural that she was the ‘go-to’ for Marianne envisaging any female sexual partner for herself.

Marianne dressed plainly but in a way which she hoped might be more ‘with it’ than usual, perhaps signalling a woman comfortable with what sexuality might offer. She put on the loose midnight blue teeshirt and a pair of boyfriend style jeans she did not wear at all often. She headed to the kitchen, increasingly determined that she would call up Carmen and suggest that they have a chat. Back at the bookshop might be an idea; it seemed to be a place they both liked. Once in the kitchen, Marianne felt that something was wrong; it was as if everything had been repositioned and the fridge seemed larger. It proved, however, to be lacking milk though Marianne was sure she had brought home some on Friday.

Then there was the sound of a key turning in the front door of the flat. That unnerved Marianne. She found herself hurrying to it, only to see Carmen walking into the living room with a large bottle of milk. Had she given Carmen a key? Had she really slept with Carmen the night before? It seemed impossible; that had been a nightmare; a dream.

“Erm, er.” Carmen stumbled. “Marianne, what are you … you doing here?”

Marianne laughed nervously. “What do you mean? I live here. This is my flat. Did you take a wrong turn?”

“Is this a joke? This is my … Hang on. That’s not mine.”

Marianne looked at the large television in the corner; next to it was a beautiful, though unfamiliar replica of a sculpture of Benin woman’s face. She did recognise the abstract painting on the wall behind which she realised Carmen was pointing to.

“What is happening?” Marianne demanded.

“I don’t know. It can’t be me going mad if you’re seeing it too. Hang on, that sofa has changed.”

A large curved black leather one was in the centre of the room. Marianne was sure that there had been carpet here before and now there were just stripped, polished floorboards and dark rugs. Was the living room larger than hers had been? The view outside the window looked different.

“You don’t live in the city centre do you?” Marianne asked.

“No.”

“I had a ground floor flat with a garden. Isn’t this the Curtis development?” Marianne continued.

“I couldn’t afford somewhere there but …”

“This is going to sound mad—but it’s as if we’ve always been … a couple. Some of your stuff, I imagine the sculpture’s yours; the painting is mine and new stuff.”

“That’s impossible. Okay I admit—I hold my hands up—I have thought sometimes it would be nice, good, to be with you but … well, I was coming to believe you thought very differently.”

“Yes.” Marianne responded slowly.

Could one woman’s desires really be so strong that they would shape someone else to fit to her dreams? Marianne pondered that but it sounded crazy.

“I did wish you were my lover. I said it to Kalisha.”

“I am touched …” Marianne was about to say that Carmen was not her type, but knew she had not really given it that much thought. “But wishes don’t come true in reality.” She pointed out as if it was necessary to recognise.

“Something is going on, you can’t deny that.”

“No, I can’t.” Marianne conceded. “The thing is—where does this end?”

Carmen laughed nervously and shrugged. Marianne recalled how she liked that gesture from the woman.

“Is this about Emmi?” Marianne felt that it had something to do with that woman; at times she had seemed similarly impossible.

“Yes, you confused me with that.” Carmen confessed. “I thought you were flirting with me; making out Emmi as your alter-ego, the one who was pretty bi-curious. I knew Kalisha called you that and guessed you had used it for some specific reason.”

Marianne shook her head. “No—I’ve actually seen ‘Emmi’: at the Centre, in the bookshop, in the pub.”

“Okay. Who; what is she?”

“Well, she’s my height; my build, roughly, more curvy though, and she’s black. She likes wearing leather and … well, more stuff, nose stud, tattoos that kind of thing. I think she’s a lesbian. Hilda said she was your wife.”

“So Hilda’s in on this too?”

“I think somehow … I don’t know how—you wishing I was … your lover, your wife, somehow has torn a hole in … in stuff and now the world, the universe is trying to set it right. So is ‘Emmi’ a substitute for me? If that was the case, then why am I still getting swept up in all this?”

Carmen looked embarrassed. “Well, there is a lot … a great deal of you that I … admire, well, to be honest—love. However, I accept I was probably fantasising about them being in a different ‘package’. I guess I had to have you the most out-and-out black lesbian around.”

“Okay, okay, I accept that your … what? Your lusts, your dreams, all that. I have no problem with them, but why me; why couldn’t I just stick with how I saw myself; wanted to be?”

Carmen shrugged, but then looked up more confidently. “I think that is what happened. This is about you as well. Think about what would give you the greatest thrill: just to try; to see what it feels like. Did you not envy me, even just a little? For you sex seems to be something in the past, but I am your age and for me it is right there—front and centre. You see me loving my sexuality; you expect me to be getting some sex, maybe a lot. I can imagine that somewhere deep in you, there is a part of you that … just wondered; just felt a bit of a buzz. You’re liberal enough that you would not shut that down with prejudice.”

“I accept that, Carmen. Everyone has forbidden, no, perhaps just—hidden—desires, but how does that come out as what? A hallucination; a shared one? A kind of phantom?”

Carmen shrugged again. “I think because you had buried such things so deep inside you—it’s like diamonds: time and pressure make them harder.”

“So I just let it wash over me? I let it win?” Marianne asked feeling a little powerless. “I go round thinking I’m this woman this …”

“Emmi.”

To Marianne it now seemed a silly name, made up of her initials: ‘M’ and ‘E’. “No, I can’t accept that. I am supposed to be me; I am supposed to be like this.”

“Are you saying that you are more ‘legitimate’ as a white heterosexual, asexual woman?”

“No, of course not.” Marianne conceded.

“Then she will win.”

“Why?”

“You’ve already said it: she’s come from what I lust after and, at least in part, she’s come out of what you have dreamt of being—trying—at least.”

“I guess I have to stop it. Maybe it hasn’t gone beyond where you can see. You stay here.”

“Okay.” Carmen put down the milk and sat on one of the deep black leather armchairs.

Marianne headed to the bedroom. However, it was almost as if a wave of something was flowing through the flat. She hurried to what had been her bedroom to find that there was a large double bed with a brilliant white duvet and a black iron frame. There were photos of two black women; Carmen and the one she recognised as Emmi, clearly looking pretty much like Marianne but as if she had been shot through a black woman’s ‘filter’.

Sliding open the mirrored wardrobe, Marianne was pleased to see some clothes she recognised. However, as with the furnishings, the closer she looked, Marianne realised that she had been mistaken. There were the clothes she had seen Emmi wearing—the leather jackets and trousers; teeshirts and tight-fitting tops. Even the shoes and boots she recognised as her own, were quickly replaced by the boots that she knew Emmi had and others of that style.

Now Marianne felt she was being backed into a corner; everything around her changing to fit Carmen’s fantasy. Yet something kept nagging at her to go forward, to embrace what was happening. There were hints of excitement about becoming a sexy lesbian; one with a partner clearly eager to please. Marianne found herself reaching out for the red leather trousers, running her fingers over their smoothness, hardly able to imagine what it would be like to be dressed in these; in the other tight and stylish clothes that she knew would show her body, well Emmi’s, to the best. It felt that it slammed home into Marianne’s mind that ‘sexy is, as sexy does’.

Part of Marianne just wanted to dress this way to see how she would feel; what she might want to do; what she would enjoy doing. She tried to drive out the thought, then the memory that appeared of a woman’s tongue; Carmen’s tongue, lapping at her shaven sex. Many other memories followed including a recent one of being in the bookshop in high-waisted leggings, the leather jacket and boots now in this wardrobe; looking at lesbian fiction. Then there was her wedding, not the one to David but the one to Marianne, pictured in the cluster of photos on the wall; the pair of them in tuxedos and patent black brogues.

Marianne tried to fight against the invasion of memories that felt to be from a different woman and yet, increasingly, appeared to be her own. She tried to regard them from her, Marianne’s perspective, but quickly understood she was now seeing many things from a different viewpoint. She recalled herself in the pub kissing Carmen; her in the bookshop getting something for her birthday, them having a coffee together; then their sex session in this very bed just the night before. Marianne battled to put herself into the memories, but increasingly she struggled to pick her way through those of Emmi that were rapidly taking predominance.

Glancing into the wardrobe once more Marianne now saw body stockings and vinyl playsuits. For a moment she did not believe that lesbians would wear such things but then found the memory of wearing the lacy body stocking beneath her work clothes. She found she knew that she—Emmi—made a feedback loop for Carmen’s sexuality, each of them leading the other to do more daring things. Memories of incidents: sex in the open, sex in public quickly came into Marianne’s mind and excited her more and more.

Marianne found her mind spinning, yet she tried to keep thinking that she was going to find herself waking up in her own bed. She tried to think how she could stop this; reverse it. All the options appeared to be taking Marianne the other way; seducing her with the offer of a sexy life as a married lesbian. Then she realised it was more than that, something—perhaps whatever Carmen had unleashed, however impossible it seemed—was wanting her not simply to become Marianne as Carmen’s partner, but Marianne as Emmi. As she tried to recall her family; her childhood, Marianne found now, perhaps because she had been fretting about recent memories, that her back history was of a black woman growing up in North London. She had been doing much the same as Marianne had done, but maturing into Emmi instead. Then she remembered how she had appeared in the bath—the shiny caramel women with those wonderful hips and breasts; her mound shaved ready for her hot lover’s tongue. Yet, Marianne found she still could not believe it was more than a hallucination.

The doorbell rang and for a moment Marianne froze. “You go … please.” Marianne called weakly.

She was not certain even whose flat this was, though Marianne had to confess she was liking the décor and felt comfortable; safe here. She heard Carmen talking with the delivery man. With all these sub-contracted companies these days, Sunday deliveries had become common.

“Emmi.” Carmen called.

Marianne could only imagine that the parcel delivered was for her and she wondered whether it would help at all for her to collect it. Then Marianne realised she was being terribly self-centred. If she was going through all of this confusion about who and what she was, then Carmen could be feeling some of the same stuff. The maddest thing was that the flat had changed and surely Carmen would be put out by that too. Furthermore, Marianne recognised how good her friend had been in dealing with the situation. While Marianne had been panicking in here, presumably Carmen had been sitting in the living room the way Marianne had asked, not hassling her with questions. Carmen was a good woman, Marianne knew that; perhaps she had not appreciated how good she really was. Marianne now felt guilty that she had been hard on someone who had only tried to help.

“Emmi, are you alright?”

In response, Marianne went to the bedroom door and opened it. Beyond, Carmen was holding a package but looked nervous.

“Carmy …” Marianne found herself saying. “Sorry, I’m being a bit hard. Come …” It seemed daft to be inviting Carmen into the bedroom which on the surface of it was hers as well.

Carmen smiled. “I like it when you’re hard; it makes me all soft.” She tittered and then looked surprised by her own words.

Marianne had a further flash of memories of having sex with Carmen and could not deny they felt good.

Carmen sat down on the bed and Marianne sat beside her. The black woman handed over the package. Marianne appreciated the woman who she guessed, before all of this, she had considered only partially as a friend but felt that, perhaps, now they would be more. Marianne conceded that if she could not shake off whatever was bringing on these new memories, then she was going to find it hard not to look at Carmen in a sexual way from this day on.

Marianne wondered what the package contained. She glanced at the address on the front, it read ‘Emmi Jordan-Taylor’ as if her surname had been combined with Carmen’s; as if the two of them had indeed been married. Abruptly as she read the words, Marianne felt as if she had been plunged into water and she shuddered, almost dropping the parcel. Carmen reached out to hold her.

As Marianne saw the tight red leather stretching along her thighs, she realised that, as she had worried, somehow she had lost and was now in the form that Carmen had fantasied for her. She lifted up her hand and saw its skin was now a caramel colour. She had on numerous silver rings plus the familiar one, in fact a white gold one, what she imagined was meant to be her wedding ring. As she ran her fingers over her head the shoulder-length hair had been replaced by a buzzcut.

“Oh God, what has happened to me?” Marianne asked desperately, though in fact she worried that she already knew.

“What’s the matter, hon?”

Marianne did not respond to the woman she guessed she would find was her wife. If this parcel had been the final piece for the changes that had happened, then she imagined the same would have occurred for Carmen. It seemed that she had had a shorter way to come, only the realisation of her dreams. Marianne, in contrast, had been steadily changed racially and in terms of her sexuality.

Marianne realised that those thoughts made her aroused. Here she was in skin-tight red leathers—she confirmed with the stroke of her nose and then her ears—with jewellery that would appeal to Carmen; a lesbian’s sexual fantasy. Glancing over to the mirrored wardrobe Marianne saw a face very like her own—the nose might be a little broader; the lips perhaps were fuller but it was as if she had discovered a black half-sister rather than a complete stranger. She noticed from the leathers that held her that she had ‘booty’; her body was now ample, not overweight, just pushing her sexy clothes out in all the right places.

With recognition of what had been done; had somehow impossibly happened to her, Marianne quickly found anger being suppressed by a sense of being out, loud and proud; a strong force in her; followed by a recognition that she had decades of delicious sex ahead. Marianne was still aware that she was Marianne Taylor; that she had been a white woman. However, those thoughts struggled in a sea of another identity, her as Marianne Emily—that had not changed but she was known as ‘Emmi’—Jordan-Taylor and she was a married, black lesbian.

Marianne tried to focus on something tangible. She looked at Carmen, but now it was apparent any concerns she had had were gone. No doubt the new memories fitted much more smoothly into her mind. She could accept that she had met a woman she called ‘Emmi’ or ‘hon’, four years ago at the Women’s Advice Centre and they had hit it off; the relationship had developed until they married two years later.

“It’s a present; for your birthday.” Marianne found herself saying.

In some ways Marianne felt as if she was driving this ‘Emmi’ body; in others that she was simply riding along with where it was taking her. The sound of her voice sounded a little odd to her, but she went with it. If she continued not to feel completely at home in this body, then she guessed it meant that sometime, perhaps, she could ‘exit’ and get back to the pale white, straight one, she had begun this day with.

“I was going to wrap it, but I am guessing you might like to use it now.”

It was with a degree of shock that Marianne found she knew what it contained—a two ended-vibrator, an extra ‘naughty’ gift for her wife. For a moment Marianne could not believe that she would have done that. Then she recalled how, back as a student, she had bought her friend Vicky a vibrator for her birthday. That ‘wicked’ version of Marianne had long been suppressed by the need to appear ‘proper’ for work. No doubt, having an intimate relationship with her wife, had revived it. Maybe in this version of herself, it had never gone away, especially as she knew Carmen was simply so hot in bed. Marianne tried to suppress those thoughts; those memories. Yet she knew that it was precisely why she kept her honey pot smooth—for her wife’s tongue.

Carmen smiled and tore away the packaging. She pulled out the vibrator and grinned broadly.

“Yes, God, Emmi, you know how to please a woman.”

From the memories she was trying to suppress, Marianne knew that, at least in this Emmi body, that was the case. She sought to hold back all the knowledge she had apparently acquired about lesbian sex in the years since she was a student. She was unresisting as Carmen came in for a long kiss and she loved the feel of her wife’s tongue as it teased her own. Then she felt her nipples straining against the tight sleeveless leather top she wore and her sex loosening, becoming moist. Marianne guessed it was no surprise that, no matter what she thought about it, Emmi was going to be turned on by the woman she loved.

Marianne tried to stop herself enjoying what was happening, but it was clear that Carmen knew what fired her—or, at least fired Emmi—to passion. Soon she was being helped from her top and trousers by Carmen and it felt churlish to refuse to return the favour. Naked, their firm black breasts were pressed against each other and Marianne was reminded of how she had seen herself in the bath. Now, every memory of every bath showed the same caramel-skinned body ageing gracefully. Soon the pair of them were beneath the duvet, where, just some hours earlier, Marianne-as-Emmi had woken her wife; her Carmen, with a stroking of her sex to orgasm. The smell of her juices on her fingers had been a delightful memory since.

Carmen then gave a gasp and Marianne realised she had slipped one end of the dildo inside her. She now sat up, the duvet falling away from her, the shiny rubber extending from between her labia.

“Come aboard, hon, and we’ll get the engine started.” Carmen joked.

Marianne knew she could never have imagined her Sunday turning out this way, but something stronger than all her ponderings was becoming insistent now. Her body was not going to let her walk away from sex with the woman she now could not help but love. Slowly she moved her labia on to the other end of the vibrator and then took it deep inside. The fact the cool rubber went in so easily showed how much she, or at least the body she inhabited, welcomed this.

The two black women were now sat up with their legs crossed; the long shiny ebony rubber connecting them. As they slid themselves further down it, their hard black nipples rubbed against each other’s giving a tantalising sensation that Marianne was torn between wanting to continue and wanting to cease. The impossibility of the whole scene just excited her further. She kept insisting it was a dream; a hallucination but the feelings were so intense that it she had to acknowledge it could be nothing except real. Then with the controller, Carmen started the vibration and both women gasped and laughed. Sex was not serious, Marianne found herself thinking, it was supposed to be fun. Gently, her wife sped up the motion, shifting up and down the rubber as Marianne found herself doing the same.

Casually Marianne’s fingers went to her excited clitoris and then across to that of Carmen. The smoothness of both was a surprise at first, but then felt good. Marianne realised she was now toying with another woman’s sex, but instead of her concerns, it seemed right, natural and certainly gave her a buzz. This, Marianne realised, could become addictive. She increasingly wondered whether, if she ever had the chance to get back to who she was supposed to be, she would now pass up on the chance. As she realised she was becoming hooked on being Emmi and living this life, Marianne felt a jolt fire through her. Then she grasped the warm skin of Carmen and realised that she was hovering on the edge of an orgasm. Her own gesture gave her wife the signal and both let go, colliding with each other as they shrieked and groaned their pleasure, their bodies hot and shuddering with the sparks flying through them. Marianne fell back still connected to her lover by the rubber, but feeling herself taken fully through the portal into the other side, where this was her life and she loved it.

Emmi woke up under the duvet and saw the face of Carmy in front of her. She stretched forward for a kiss. She felt sticky but filled with the energy that a couple of orgasms had pushed into her. She licked her lips. They tasted of her wife’s juice. For some reason she had insisted that she licked and sucked Carmen as much as she could. Now she did not remember what had driven her on so hard; almost as if she had to prove that she was a lesbian; deft at lesbian oral sex. Now her stomach complained that, while her sex had been attended to, it had been neglected.

Carmen’s eyes came open and Emmi shifted closer and kissed her again. She loved this woman and her body so much.

“Come on, let’s get brunch.” Emmi suggested.

She always liked being seen out and about in the city with her wife. Rights had come along way for lesbians, but she felt a strength in being a black lesbian; out, loud and proud. She hoped that it might offer encouragement to others who were less confident, to chase their dreams and find and love the woman who was right for them, just as she had done. Emmi slid naked from beneath the duvet and padded past the red leathers she would wear later. She started the shower then came back to fetch her wife.

Soon their two dark-skinned bodies were in the warm water, having fun lathering each other and gently sponging themselves down. Emmi wondered how she got anything done these days and guessed she should count herself blessed she had volunteered at the Centre and met such a delightful, strong woman there and, perhaps above all, that the feeling had been mutual. It would be terribly frustrating, she knew, to see Carmen each Saturday and know their relationship was going no further than just being friends. Coming together had been a wish granted.

Emmi was in her tight red leathers; loving the feel, aroma and sound of them; she had buckled herself into her patent red boots too and delighted in how obvious, how explicit, she was. Across the table from her, tucking into eggs benedict, Carmen was similarly dressed but in black. Emmi could not help thinking of all that they had done that morning nor dismiss the idea of spending the afternoon back in bed toying with her wife’s body.

“Marianne.”

Emmi turned to the sound of the name. It was her actual name, but no-one used it much. Once she had recognised her sexuality as a teenager, she had insisted on ‘Emmi’ from her initials. Then she saw it was Helena Markham from the legal firm where she worked.

“Helena, hello.”

Lurking behind the middle-aged woman was a man that Emmi took to be her husband.

“Erm, can we join you? It’s a bit of a squeeze.”

Emmi shot a glance at Carmen who smiled. Emmi then moved round so she was sat next to her; the Markhams took the seats opposite.

“Marianne—this is Roger.”

“Call me Emmi,” she insisted, “this is Carmy—Carmen, my wife.”

Helena smiled and nodded. “I knew you were married, it’s good to meet you Carmen. God, you look good together.”

Emmi felt pride in that and knew that not only did they look good together, they were very, very, thrillingly good together and it was a situation she had no desire to alter.