Uh-huh. I had never seen Mount Everest or a lady flag maker or a gingerbread oven, but this was for real, and right in front of my eyes. Because that was what she was doing with her hands, frigging herself. I knew the word. Oh shit, I knew all the words. I wanted to say them out loud, to tell her how beautiful she looked with that big bare ass shining and those big bare tits shaking and shimmering, all rosy-red in the lamplight. Fingerfucking her own cunt, imagine! Was that how to scratch the itch, the itchy-quivery feeling, the horny feeling? She had both hands down there, down between her legs, working the fingers up and around inside her slit, the hairy cunt-slit that refused to show itself for more than a quick glimpse now and then, no matter how hard I squinted and strained for a better view. Each hand had its own job to do, I noticed, each with its own speed and style, the lower one always in motion, sliding in and out, fucking – while the hand above remained pretty steady, cupped and curved to give the fingertips a chance, caressing her clit, no doubt, the little love-button that was supposed to be hot stuff, at least according to most of the experienced lesbians in that book about the pleasure resort. Anyway, it was good to see a demonstration of something that I had read about with great enjoyment but not much conviction. (Let's face it, there are times when you gotta believe!) And it was even better to see how simple and natural it was, much easier to understand than all that silly nonsense about the birds and the bees and the flowers.

True, she was doing it alone, solo, and that was possible for any woman, not just a lesbian; it said so in the book. But the way she panted and kept her attention focused on the mirror, gazing as though it was more than just an image of herself – well, I was almost convinced that those two rose-colored Bernadette's were lesbian lovers.