The Stylist

Mrs. Rochester studies her reflection. Her husband’s dinner starts in three hours and she refuses to let age become the story anyone tells. Lilly moves behind her, fingers gliding down the bare slope of her shoulders, then lower. The gown that waits on the rack is forgotten for a moment while Lilly’s breath warms the nape of her neck and her palms cup Mrs. Rochester’s breasts through silk. Thumbs circle stiff nipples until heat slips between Mrs. Rochester’s thighs. Lilly drops to her knees, tugging the lace panties aside, and her tongue drags a slow, wet stripe through folds already slick. Mrs. Rochester gasps, one hand braced on the vanity, the other gripping Lilly’s hair as fingers slide inside, curling, thrusting in a steady rhythm. The stylist works her open until pleasure crests sharp and sudden. Mrs. Rochester shudders, legs trembling, then stands straighter in the mirror. When Lilly finally helps her into the dress, the cut is perfect, and the confidence underneath is unmistakable.