Opening lines, she thought, should always be sublime. If not-the whole piece was a crime.

She aligned her body so that she was perpendicular to the oncoming rays of the sun. She knew deep within herself that cultivating an artistic tan took as much talent as anything she or any other literary luminary could write.

She began to tease her twat with the nub of a platinum swizzle stick.

A few slips and slides.

Inside the slit.

Along the outside of the lips.

Her labia began a quiet drizzle.

She sighed at the rise of mild masturbatory dizziness. Recognized the familiar haze that cast a veil over the precision of her vision.

Then came the comfortable daze.

The detached ease that framed her consciousness as she applied friction.

Liquefaction in the rise between her thighs.

Her mind quickened.

The plot thickened.

As did the juices in her quim.

The voiceover to a sweeping camera panorama of an outrageous orgy in progress inside the marble halls of a charity ball: “I never touch. I just lust.”

Camera close-up on the moving mouth of one who was not unlike Constance herself. But who indeed had a life of her own in this script.

This somehow fictional and real Constance found herself fondling a long strand of black pearl beads twined a number of times about her columnular neck. She sucked several of the nacreous globules, playing them with her tongue.

She let the pearlescent strand drop.

Between her boobs it slung.

The camera zoomed in on her bazooms.

And the lady stripped.

Constance fingered gingerly her black lingerie trimmed in hand worked Belgian lace.

Cautiously smoothed her captivating bustier, partially baring rouged boobs.