Continued

Cherie stands at the window, her hand trembling as she watches his car pull out of the driveway. He's gone. This time, he’s really gone.

She turns back to Lisa, her hands tangling in Lisa’s hair as she claims her mouth with a desperate, guttural moan. The monochrome world suddenly shatters into hyper-vivid, saturated color.

Lisa hoists herself onto the marble counter, her skirt riding up to her waist. Cherie doesn't hesitate; she drops to her knees, her hands gripping Lisa's thighs as she buries her face in the woman's soaked, dark heat.

The dream skips like a scratched record. Now Cherie is on the kitchen table, her back arched against the wood, her legs spread wide as Lisa’s tongue works with a professional, rhythmic precision that drives Cherie to scream. Then they are on the floor, locked in a frantic 69, the scent of their combined arousal filling the dream-space.

Finally, they are scissoring in the center of the kitchen, their bodies a tangled mess of sweat and friction. As they reach a synchronized, explosive climax, Lisa looks Cherie right in the eye and says, "This is the art you're meant to write, Cherie."