T W E N T Y

I’m Setting Off, But Not Without My Muse

 

2024 January 28
Sunday

“We have to assume,” Trev had told them hours ago, after Persephone had showered and shaved and and napped and put on spare clothes from Summer’s bag, after they’d gotten on the road, “that there was some sort of leak. Maybe they compromised the Peckinville network; maybe they found someone who would take a bribe; maybe they just got someone drunk. We don’t know.”

Fortunately, Trev had already prepared for this contingency. They had arranged a safe house where only they, Grace Lively, and Elle Lambert would know to find them. It was remote and isolated, not a place anyone would stumble across them, and Grace had spent the morning stocking it with enough food and supplies for them to stay put there with minimal outside contact for quite a while. If they did need anything, Trev would deliver it themself.

Then, after some agitated texting around three PM, Trev abruptly told Persephone that they would have to part ways with the girls ahead of schedule, and asked her to drop them off at a train station in Manchester. Once there, Trev handed over the keys and the rental car and gave them the address they needed to drive to.

What Trev hadn’t told them, though, was that the place was off what had to be the tiniest, twistiest, most harrowing B road in all of Britain, one that was little more than a dirt track through dense woods, and that the private road leading to the cottage was even worse. Nor that it would start pouring rain. And if all that wasn’t enough to have on Persephone’s plate, Summer was having her voice train by singing along to the car stereo.

“Take me to the Lakes where all the poets went to die
“I don't belong
“And my beloved, neither do you
“Those Windermere peaks look like a perfect place to cry
“I’m setting off
“But not without my muse
“No, not without you…”

And then the song ended. Persephone cleared her throat; it felt strange after so much singing. “Did you pick—”

“Head voice,” Summer reminded her.

Persephone sighed, adjusted, started again. “Did you pick this entire album just for the one song?” Persephone asked.

“Well, it’s also Taylor’s most relaxing album, and after last night…” Summer trailed off. “But yes, the setting had something to do with it.”

It was then that the car emerged from the trees and began climbing a hill, revealing a landscape so pretty that even the gray clouds, driving rain, and howling winds couldn’t hide it entirely. A large lake surrounded by greenery that climbed the surrounding landscape until it met the snowy caps of the mountains. And ahead of them, past the end of the dirt track they were following, a little stone house, just one story tall and half-covered with climbing plants, with a prominent chimney and warm light spilling out of its windows into the fenced garden around it. Parked by the gate was an unmarked white box trailer; it was filled, Trev had told them, with duplicates of many of the items they’d ordered for their stay at Littleport House, plus some clothes meant for the colder clime of the Lake District.

“Oh!” Persephone said as the sight jogged a memory. “I’ve been here before!”

“Really?” Summer asked, glancing over.

“Yeah, with my parents when I was little. It belongs to Auntie Elle—a little holiday cottage she let us borrow for a couple weeks during the summer.”

“What’s it like?”

“Small but cozy,” Persephone giggled. “I think I slept on the sofa—it was comfortable.” Persephone pulled up behind the trailer, next to the garden gate, and parked the car; the engine turned off, leaving only the rain pounding on the windshield and roof.

The two of them peered through the downpour at the door of the cottage, a good thirty yards from the front gate.

“So, Summer,” Persephone asked, “I don’t suppose you packed an umbrella in that bag of yours?”

 

* * *

 

Although Summer chivalrously allowed Persephone to hold the go bag over her head while they dashed towards the cottage, both girls were absolutely drenched by the time they got inside. But at least they were giggling about it, and Grace had apparently been quite thoughtful when she prepared the cottage for their arrival. The fireplace was already lit, a pile of split logs stacked nearby, and the scent of beef cooking filled the air. It was a toasty, comforting scene.

The place really was rather small, though. Other than the bathroom, it consisted of a single room, like a large-ish studio apartment. On one end, a big, soft-looking bed and a bedroom set; on the other, a compact but well-appointed kitchen with a table for two; between them, a small loveseat facing the fireplace. Where there weren’t picture windows showcasing the natural beauty around them, the walls were largely decorated with tasteful artistic nudes that were distinctly…well, lesbian.

Persephone had noticed too; she was looking around the place with noticeably pink cheeks. Apparently she hadn’t picked up on it as a little girl, but to adult eyes, it was obvious that this place wasn’t Elle’s cottage so much as Elle’s love nest.

Persephone glanced back and forth, finding no safe place to look. “I-I-I guess we should, um, change?” she said, and she ducked into the loo, closing the door behind her.

Summer would have smirked, except that changing into warm, dry clothes sounded like a really good idea right now. She walked towards the bed area, stripping off her sopping wet boots, hoodie, t-shirt, jeans, and socks, then popped open the wardrobe.

And found nothing useful. About three outfits that looked to all be in Elle’s size—too small for even Persephone, let alone Summer. The dresser wasn’t any better, and the nightstand’s main contents were lube and condoms, because of course Elle bloody Lambert would need condoms. And the clothes in Summer’s go bag were the ones she had escaped the fire in—they were covered in soot and reeked of smoke. Hardly a suitable alternative.

Summer looked out the window at the white trailer parked outside—the one that Trev had said would contain fresh clothes. She did not want to go through that downpour again—and with this much water splattering on the windows as the wind blew it around, she wasn’t sure she could keep the contents of the trailer dry if she opened it. Fuck.

Maybe there was a clothes dryer? She gathered up her dripping things and carried them to the kitchen. The first thing she noticed was the slow cooker on the counter, emitting the smell of the rich beef stew that Summer, like any Dorley graduate, could prepare in her sleep; the timer said it’d be ready in fifteen minutes, although they could leave it simmering indefinitely. The kitchen also had a stove and oven, a toaster and microwave, a small dishwasher, a clothes washer…but no dryer. Instead, there was a small clothes drying rack. Which would take forever to dry anything in this sort of humidity, but the fire might help.

With little alternative, she dragged the drying rack over to the fire, then wrung out her clothes over the sink before hanging them up. Then she loaded some of the clothes from her bag into the washer (the whites, to the extent that anything they’d worn during the fire could be called “white” at this point), selected a very thorough cycle and added about twice as much detergent as usual, and got it running.

And then, after washing the soot off her hands, she found and opened a bottle of red wine, poured two glasses, carried them to the couch, and draped a blanket over herself, basking in the warmth of the fire.

Well, she decided after a moment, there are worse situations to be practically naked.

Behind her, Summer heard a door unlatch. “Um, Summer,” Persephone asked, “d’you have anything I can change into?”

 

* * *

 

“We’re both girls here,” Summer had said. “It’s no different from changing clothes or cuddling in bed.”

Only it was different from every other time they’d been barely dressed in each other’s company. Because this time, the two of them were huddled under a single blanket, squeezed together by the tiny sofa, slowly warmed by fire and food and alcohol and the electric touch of skin on skin. Whether it was the new hormones or the new feelings Persephone couldn’t say, but her skin felt so good wherever Summer touched her, and from the way the older woman’s breathing hitched whenever they moved, she was pretty sure the feeling was mutual.

Not all of their feelings were mutual, she knew; Summer cared for her, wanted her, but she didn’t love her and might not ever. But here, in this place, with this woman so warm and soft and alive at her side—and hadn’t last night been a lesson not to take that for granted?—she could admit it to herself.

It didn’t matter that Summer didn’t love her. Persephone would take whatever she was willing to offer, and would live without the rest.

When she looked up, she found Summer looking down at her with intense blue eyes, and she just couldn’t resist any longer.

She lifted herself up until her lips found Summer’s. This kiss was like slamming on the gas pedal on an empty motorway, zero to sixty in mere seconds, tongues meeting, bodies pressing together, Persephone somehow shifting to straddle Summer’s thighs, her hands moving up Summer’s arms, Summer’s hands sliding down to Persephone’s waist. And then, a long time later yet far too soon, Summer’s hands applied gentle pressure to Persephone, and they separated.

“Persephone, we shouldn’t—“

“Why not?” Persephone demanded.

“The power dynamic—“

“Has changed,” she interrupted.

Summer blinked. “What?”

“Summer…I have money and support now.” She leaned back a little, looked Summer in the eye. “I don’t need your help to transition anymore—I just want it.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And we both want this too, Summer. So let us have it. There’s no reason not to. Not anymore.”

Summer spent a long moment thinking about it—a moment where Persephone could hardly breathe. Then the corner of Summer’s lip curled into a confident smirk before her mouth descended to meet Persephone’s. Her kiss was bold, demanding, and although her touches had felt good before, now she was moving her hands with purpose, running them along Persephone’s sides and up her back, making her arch against her and whimper into her mouth as Summer casually brushed fingers across sensitive spots she didn’t even know she had.

Summer broke the kiss and began pressing a line of soft, teasing kisses along Persephone’s jaw until she reached her ear. And then she whispered, “After all that, please tell me your tests were negative so I can fuck you tonight.”

Persephone shuddered at the feeling of her warm breath tickling her ear. How had Summer turned a safe sex discussion into foreplay? “Y-yes. Yours?”

“Negative.” Summer’s hand slid along Persephone’s belly, and oh god, did that feel good… “Now. Any requests?”

“Not…uh, down there, more than you need to.”

Summer’s hand stopped and she drew it out of the blankets, leaning over to reach into her purse. “Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart.”

She extracted something and held it up. It was a mass of buckles and straps and a—

Persephone blushed hotly and looked back up at Summer, who said, her voice throaty, “If we need one, we’ll use mine.”

Then they were kissing again, and Summer’s hands found her breasts, and she discovered even more things that Summer was good at.

 

* * *

 

The breasts under her fingers were small, but they were still definitely breasts. Soft, plush, and so tender that it took only light squeezes to make Persephone tremble in her lap. Her nipples were even more sensitive, so much so that Summer didn’t risk anything more than light caresses, despite her desire to do more—to pinch and pull, to find the threshold between pleasure and pain and keep Persephone right on the edge of it. That would require more negotiation than either of them had the patience for tonight, so it would have to wait for another time.

Because there would be another time, she was sure. Summer was too skilled a lover, and Persephone too eager to have her, for it to go any other way.

So she could afford to be patient. Until then, she sought less sensitive targets. The soft gasp when her teeth found Persephone’s earlobe was music to Summer’s ears; the tiny whimper when they found her neck was an orchestra. And all along, her fingers kept searching, cataloguing the little spots on Persephone’s sides, back, belly, shoulders that made her tremble. (Foreplay, too, was a matter of using levers.)

“Oh my God,” Persephone breathed. “It all feels so…”

“Different?” She ran a thumb across Persephone’s nipple; the girl whimpered and nodded. “Your body isdifferent now. It’s shaped differently; it’s sensitive to different things; and it’ll respond differently, too.”

And Summer was responsible for that. She’d created the little breasts she was now fondling. She’d softened and sensitized the skin she was caressing. She’d trained those little moans into a higher pitch.

Why the fuck did that make this so much hotter?

“You haven’t experimented much on E, have you?” Summer asked.

Persephone shook her head. “Kind of, uh, lost interest after my egg cracked,” she said. Summer could read between the lines: dysphoria, probably bottom dysphoria mostly, had gotten in the way.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Summer said. “I’ll teach you this like I’ve taught you everything else.” At that, Persephone looked up at her so eagerly that she couldn’t help but kiss her.

Then Summer took her to the bed and taught her how a girl could be touched. And when she reached release, Summer kissed her fiercely and taught her that she tasted like a girl now, too. And finally came the longest and most important lesson: that she did not have to stop anymore until she was completely satisfied, and that when a woman took her to bed, she deserved nothing less.

 

* * *

 

Back by the sofa, sitting in her purse, Summer’s phone vibrated. But Summer was rather busy; she wouldn’t notice Trev’s apology text until the morning.