I was back, for the first time, some ten years later, for a concert in the local arts centre, and I was curious: I like going back. It's an unusual trait, I suspect, in people like me, people who are constantly striving for the next opportunity. Such is their lust for progress that history is anathema: but not for me, I've always loved it, loved poring over the past, revisiting my youth, retracing the steps of my life. I like to recreate the way I felt in a given place, in a given time; I like to settle into a shadow of my life, to nestle into a discarded image of myself, try it for size, look for holes, see if it still fits. There are many - ah, too many - which I have completely outgrown, but some still suit me perfectly and I can slip into myself, recreating the sounds and sights, tastes and smells, thoughts and emotions of another time, another me: walking down Union Street in Aberdeen towards Castle Street, for example, with the smell of the sea blown on the wind from the Beach Boulevard, transports me, mind and body, to 1985, to Gillian, to the first of ten thousand kisses.

Oh yes, Gillian, my guide and fellow cavalier, and together those first, delicious steps leading out on a stony, narrow track which has gradually, year on year, widened to form the motorway of my experience. I was sorry to leave her behind. But on I press, always awaiting the next destination, that new discovery; all the while looking back and remembering: such a joy it is, to remember from the safety of a new life, a new me. What does that make me: a progressive reactionary? A calculated romantic? I really couldn't say.

I spent the day in town, wandering its narrow passages, admiring the gothic churches and fine array of secular architecture piled together in easy chance: Georgian next to Victorian, Edwardian beside Regency, functional modernist offices gazing tolerantly on the mock Tudor homes next door; all existing in happy anarchy, blessed by the unusually relaxed hand of an enlightened planner. The sun shone, and I was pleased because the town always looked best in sunshine: its stones gleamed, sparkling with mischief in contrast to the heavy nature of their burden, showing off their lightness of spirit, their joy in life: given the opportunity, true character will always emerge.

I ate supper in my favourite Italian restaurant, a genuine Neapolitan experience, light on the sauce and heavy on pasta, despatched with a bottle of red wine. By the time the concert began I was delightfully mellow, relaxed in reverie. Just the mood, indeed, to appreciate Martin Hayes and Dennis Cahill, whose mesmerising, sinuous performances seem to exist on a different plane: they take traditional Irish music and imbue it with a classical resonance and elegant maturity which leaves you breathless and entranced. For forty minutes there is only music, a music of beauty and love, passion and life. Theirs is the true sound of seduction: melancholy, slow and daedalic. Charmed, dazed, I sailed through the performance, lost to the reality of time, and in the interval I floated to the bar: I had wisely pre-ordered my drink and, with a glass of chardonnay, settled into a chair near the bar watching the mêlée, feeling the music resonate in my mind.

I'm not sure if I recognised her immediately. Looking back, I don't think I did, and there is no reason why I should. She was with, but not part of, a large group of twenty-somethings, most of them frantically mugging as though auditioning for Friends, with ludicrous, round-shouldered movements and declamatory voices. That was what drew my attention to her: in contrast to the overblown, ego-massaging gestures of her companions, she sat on the periphery, silent and undemonstrative; different, not exactly aloof - she was animated enough when spoken to - but happy to participate on her own terms. She wasn't attractive, her features plain, hair long and unkempt, and in a style seemingly unchanged from when she was a little girl. But there was something about her - something in her manner, her demeanour - which held my attention.

And then I realised.

I knew who she was.

She had been a student when I was at the college. I never taught her, and had no idea of her name, but I remembered her as a quiet, solid presence. She was one of those people who always seemed to be there: walking down a corridor, she would be coming in the opposite direction; drawing into the car park, she would be hunched over her bicycle, locking it; entering the canteen, or the library, or wherever, she would be leaving. Always a passer-by, never a participant; and always with the same expression. Blank. By blank I do not mean vacant, or idiotic. Rather, I mean restrained, as though her head were full of thoughts, but there they would remain. Sometimes I was intrigued by this silent, solemn girl; but mostly, I'll be honest, she irritated me intensely.

As a child, ten years before, she had been very plain. Her features were large, her head small and her body all angles - childish joints and limbs growing out of kilter and leaving her a gangling, ungainly lump of a girl. Her hair was black and very thick, totally unstyled and left to roam over her head and shoulders. She appeared to have no friends, and although it was a small college where the lecturers came to know most of the students - even those they didn't teach - I could honestly say I knew nothing about her. She was an ugly duckling; she was a cipher.

Now, ten years on, she had finally grown into her body and her features. It was no transformation into an elegant swan, I can assure you, but the ugliness of her childhood face had fallen away and she was striking in her own manner. She was still very shy, it was clear, not leading conversation nor drawing attention to herself; but when spoken to she replied in animated fashion, her face wreathed in smiles, her hands and body moving eloquently. Her smile was enchanting, the merest upturn of her lips revealing more than the hyperbolic gestures of her companions. She had a deep-rooted self-assurance which manifested itself the more one looked at her, and after a few moments I found myself quite intrigued.

The warning bell for the start of the second set rang out and I was overtaken by a curious regret. I felt I wanted to know more about the girl: I had no idea why, but I hated the thought of ending the evening without having discovered something about her. I got up and fiddled with my handbag and jacket, delaying, trying to time my exit to match hers. As the crowd jostled in the bottleneck at the bottom of the stairs, I manoeuvred myself next to her.

"Are you coming back down after the end of the performance?" I asked, my heart hammering in my chest.

She looked at me curiously. Despite the strangeness of my enquiry, I can't say there was surprise in her expression; there was, in truth, nothing in her expression, nothing but calmness. "Wasn't planning to. We're going on to a club later. Why?"

"It's nothing. Just wondered." I looked away, flushed with embarrassment. The queue was snaking up the stairs towards the concert hall and my moment was disappearing. "It's just," I continued, staring her in the eye, "it's just that I think I know you. From college. A few years ago."

"Oh yes - Miss Scott, I remember you. Recognised you straight away."

I was nonplussed. Why would she have remembered me? I didn't even teach her. "Just wondered if you'd like to chat - about the old days, what you're doing now." I was aware of how foolish I sounded: I knew nothing about her from the old days; why should I be interested in what she did now - or she me? I sounded like a desperate Careers Mistress seeking self-affirmation from the success of her charges. I could feel my face reddening and I was glad of the distraction of the stairway as I began to climb.

"Okay," she said. "That'd be interesting. See you in the bar later. Mine's a San Miguel."

I confess much of the second half passed me by. I couldn't get her out of my mind, couldn't stop an image of her face obliterating the events around me. I was visited by desire: an unexplained, inexplicable desire. And I was visited by panic: what on earth was I going to talk about, later in the bar? 'You're not as ugly as you used to be'? Or 'I see you've managed to find some friends now'? To be honest, I was regretting my invitation and even contemplated disappearing out of the main exit at the end. And yet, whenever I considered that convenient escape, a vision of the pale girl floated past me again and intrigue took over once more.

"Cheers," she said, raising her glass and chinking it against mine. Her friends had not come back to the bar afterwards and we were alone.

"Cheers. I'm sorry, I can't remember your name."

"Marina. Easily forgotten."

"It's a beautiful name."

"Sea Maiden. Girl of the sea - that's me. Like the sea: always in the same place but never still, rolling and discovering, for ever and ever. And what about Miss Scott?"

"Harriet, please. You make me sound like an old maid."

"Harriet. It always seems strange, calling your teachers by their name."

"I never lectured you."

"Yeah, you did. A couple of times. Information systems."

"Sorry, I'd forgotten that. Boring course."

"You're telling me."

I laughed. I could have taken offence, but she said it lightly and she was not a woman to be offended by. She stared at me as she spoke. Her eyes were green, a vivid shade made all the more startling by the curtain of black hair sliding down her forehead and parting across her brow. Even I could tell it was a deeply unfashionable style. Her eyes followed me quizzically, occasionally screwing in contemplation, and I felt as though I were being constantly appraised. The smile on her lips, at least, suggested I was gaining approval.

"And so what about you?" she asked.

"What about me?"

"Well, there's me, the sea woman, constant but changing. What about Miss Scott? Harriet? What about you?"

"Oh, I see. Well." I paused. "If you're the sea, I guess I'm a river. Always flowing. Never stopping still for long. Always moving to the next location."

"Yeah? So while I'm forever visiting and revisiting, you're more of a 'been there, done that' sort of woman?"

"Yes, I suppose so." I bristled slightly: it sounded a bit shallow, the way she phrased it.

"That why you left here?"

"Yes."

"Got bored of us. Little town, little people."

"No, no, not that. Nothing as crude as that." But she was right, of course, it was exactly what I thought: I was bored with them. "No, it's just - I always need something new, a new challenge."

"Grass is always greener."

"Yes, I guess so."

"Hmm." She looked at me challengingly. "And is it?"

No, it never is. "Sometimes," I replied.

She laughed, "I'll bet."

I sipped my drink cautiously. Marina was disarmingly straight. In truth, she was a bundle of contradictions: shy, yet direct to the point of forwardness, plain-faced but curiously attractive. And I was attracted to her, there was no denying it. She sat quite upright in her chair, elegantly postured, her breasts pushed forward and straining against her white blouse. Her complexion was milky white, skin soft and supple, wonderfully smooth. Around her neck two delicious lines were carved through the skin, parallel and delicate, like mineral traces etched in alabaster. The top three buttons of her blouse were undone, revealing her throat and chest; when she moved I caught glimpses of her shoulder, the bony scapula prominent. I wanted to kiss it.

"And have you never wanted to get away from here?"

"Oh yeah, when I'm ready. When it happens it happens. No need to chase it."

"But what if it never happens?"

"It will." I was enthralled. Her confidence was preternatural. She was everything I wasn't.

"Don't you get bored?"

"No, why should I? There's plenty to do here. Pubs, clubs; the library for extending the mind, museum for a rainy day, swimming pool. What more do you want?" Her arm was stretched across the table, fingers grasping a beer mat and rolling it along the wooden surface. She was staring at me as she spoke, her eyes at once calculated and reassuring. "An hour from Luton Airport and from there another hour to Paris, Amsterdam, Madrid, Barcelona 3;"

"If you put it like that 3;"

"Tomorrow morning - by midday, say - we could be in the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, standing in front of the 'Wheat Field with Crows.' You could tell me why it makes me cry."

"I could tell you that now."

"Well, there you go. No need to be constantly on the move. No need to roam in search of answers. They're here, all the time."

"Touché." She grinned and sipped her lager, directing what could only be described as a challenging stare at me. It was as though she were deliberately provoking me: but to do what? I hadn't worked that out.

"Don't suppose you fancy coming clubbing?"

"Not my scene, really."

"Didn't think so. More of a Rachmaninov type, I'd bet."

"Now you're talking." I didn't know much about Rachmaninov, in truth, but I wasn't about to confess that. I was getting the impression that Marina was trying to prove that she wasn't a small-town girl. Not that she had much to compete with, if only she had known: I wasn't much of a culture-seeker myself.

"Well, it just so happens I have an extensive collection of his work at home. If you'd care to join me?"

Did I! I couldn't imagine anything more delightful. "My last train leaves in about twenty minutes."

"No problem, you can kip at mine."

A surge of excitement washed through my veins. The most innocent remark, at the right time, can be suffused with erotic tension. I'm sure Marina was completely unaware of the ripples of desire she had unleashed in my mind. Her green eyes held me mesmerised. The upright comportment of her body was, if anything, slightly boyish, and yet it was beguiling, seductive. I wanted her.

"Okay."

I felt like a teenager again. We collected a bottle of wine from the off-licence on the way to Marina's, laughing and throwing caustic remarks at the lagered-up lads spilling out of the pubs on the way. By the time we had settled in Marina's living room I was light-headed, from both the drink and the excitement; and - dare I say it - the anticipation? Nothing in our conversation had been overtly sexual, and I can't honestly point to any flirtatiousness on either side, and yet I had a suspicion about Marina. It was in her eyes, in the way they held mine, the stare which was a fraction of a second too long.

Marina selected a CD and slotted it into the player, then joined me on the settee, handing me a glass of wine. "Cheers," she said.

"Cheers. What is this?"

"The wine we just bought in the off-licence."

"No, the music, silly. I may be old, but I haven't got Alzheimer's yet."

"You're not old. You couldn't have been much older than us when you taught at the college."

"It was my first job. First proper job, anyway."

"Thought so. This is Symphony Number One in D Minor. I love it. It reminds me of me."

"Yes? Why?"

"Well, it reminds me of the sea, I think. And I associate myself with the sea." I nodded. "It's the repetition. That's what's important about this piece. The same rhythms and motifs keep reappearing. At first they seem totally different, but they're not - it's the same underlying motif, sometimes slow, sometimes strident, at the end decidedly ominous. But always the same, from the same root. And it rolls. Rolls like the sea, like the waves, so that all the time new motifs get drawn in and repeated, and they all build and build, like waves crashing forward. You can see yourself standing on a beach, watching the water ride towards you. Sometimes it's stormy, sometimes calm, but always the sea returns. And the end of the piece is so clever: it returns to the beginning, with the same rhythm. Circular, eternal, just like the sea."

As the music progressed, Marina pointed out passages which explained what she had said. I was fascinated. It all made sense, it seemed so obvious, but I knew that had I had listened to it alone I would have given up after a few minutes. It would have seemed too cold, too deathly for me, but her explanation brought the piece to life, and I listened with increasing delight. Her voice was soft and low, floating beneath the music, the slight edge of her accent bringing a delicate charm to her words. As the third movement, the Larghetto, began, she gripped my arm.

"Now listen. Listen to this. It starts so bleak, so desperate, and ends in such hope. I've never heard anything which moves from blackness to soaring heights as well as this."

"That sounds like the voice of experience."

"We all have our baggage. Just listen. It flows, it flows so beautifully." Her hand remained on my arm, and I was aware of a delicious tension. I wanted to reach out to her, but I knew that any movement would cause her to back away: however slight her touch, however imperfect the bond, I knew I could ask for no more.

"It was a disaster when it was first performed, you know?" she said.

"Yes?"

"Yes. It was awful. Rachmaninov was vilified. By everyone - critics and public alike. He was mortified - couldn't get over it. Withdrew into himself. Stopped writing. For three years."

"Poor guy."

"Could have been a calamity. We might have lost one of our greatest composers before he really got started. He was pulled out of it through hypnosis, apparently. Persuaded he could write again. And he did."

Again, Marina stared at me. She was issuing a challenge, but I couldn't discern what it was. Her body was rigid. Her hand still gripped my arm but not, as before, tenderly. I nodded, confused. "Indeed."

"Indeed, indeed. Don't you see? He was tormented by events. He allowed himself to be driven by events."

"Hard not to, when things go so badly wrong."

"Hard, but not impossible. Use the power of thought."

"'Use the power of thought?'" That sounded familiar.

"Yes, you see - you know what I'm talking about, don't you?"

"I'm not sure."

"Yes, you are. You taught me this, didn't you?"

Yes I did. It was one of my lectures - my apparently boring information systems lectures. My students used to become obsessed with information, not seeing it for what it was - a tool - but as an end. In essays, I would be assailed with pages of facts, turgid and repetitive, and none of them would offer any explication or extrapolation. None of them thought. It is much the same mistake that our politicians, with their puerile league tables and performance indicators, regularly make today. I taught my students that information was not knowledge, and that knowledge was not understanding. I taught them that information was merely a tool; and that thought was the key to understanding. I taught them to distinguish between process and outcome. I taught them that accountants may be important people, but they understand nothing, because they do not think; they merely follow a process. Only cavaliers think.

"The power of thought," I said.

"Transcends knowledge."

"Not transcends. Interprets it. Makes it useful."

"It can transcend - if you allow your thoughts, your beliefs, to become paramount. If you don't allow yourself to be dictated to by what's happening around you."

"So what are you saying? If Rachmaninov had been able to divorce himself from events, been able to rise above the criticism, he wouldn't have gone into a three year decline?"

"Listened to his thoughts, not got bullied into accepting the views of the throng. Who got proved wrong in the end, remember. That's the important point."

"But that's a recipe for megalomania, surely."

"Thanks."

"No, I didn't mean it to be rude."

"It's my philosophy for life." She was smiling, and I knew she hadn't taken offence.

"But I'm right. If you always presume you are correct and the rest of the world is wrong, that's megalomania. I am right."

"Bit of a megalomaniac yourself then, aren't you? But no, you're not right, actually. A hundred years later, we all agree that Symphony Number One is a masterpiece. We should have listened to Rachmaninov at the time. And he should have listened to himself. And think of Vincent - the Wheatfield with Crows - who thought he was sane in his lifetime? Who thought he was worth buying? How many paintings did he sell? And now? How many millions for his work?"

"So what are you suggesting?"

"Follow your thoughts."

"Follow your thoughts?"

"Use your mind. It's the most powerful creation in existence. Use it."

"I think I do."

"To an extent, maybe. But you're getting it the wrong way round."

"What the wrong way round?"

"Actions inform your thoughts, not thoughts informing your actions."

"Such as?"

"Such as constantly moving, always seeking new experiences. You don't need that. Let your brain do the work."

"It's not as simple as that."

"No?"

"No."

Her eyes were wide, their greenness emphasised by the animation of her features. She was pressed forward, her body swaying towards mine, her fingers trailing along my arm. "Shall I give you a demonstration?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Describe my breasts."

"What?"

"Describe my breasts. You've been staring at them all night. Tell me what they look like."

Extraordinary. An extraordinary woman. She stared defiantly and sat back, pulling her torso straight, emphasising her breasts. What a challenge.

"I 3;" I had no idea what to say.

"You have been staring at them. You know it, I know it, neither of us minds - get over it. Just tell me what you think: describe them."

Strangely, I didn't feel embarrassed, although I was certainly nonplussed. It seemed to matter less to me that I had been found ogling her breasts than that I was being called on to describe them. I faltered, but she smiled encouragingly.

"It's not a test," she said. "I won't be giving you marks out of a hundred."

But I might want you to, I thought. "I imagine your breasts are beautiful."

"Cliché. You can do better than that."

"Hang on, I hadn't started. Patience, woman!"

"Okay, sorry. More wine?"

"Too bloody right. Pour it in, fast."

She grinned and shimmied in front of me, shaking her breasts deliberately. Filling my glass, she handed it to me. "Okay." It was not a question.

"Okay. Your breasts. I imagine them quite small. Or at least they look quite small, but probably they're not. Do you know what I mean? Because they're so well proportioned: they suit your body. They will be pointed, very firm and standing happily without any support. They will point at angles away from one another, and each breast will be conical, ending in an elongated nipple. The areolae will be quite small, regular, perfectly round, quite dark, I think, and the nipples large - very long and puffy." My conversation was making me excited. The music was streaming to its conclusion, the Allegro con fuoco, with its frustratingly familiar passages, pulsing and flowing through the room. Marina watched me intently, with no display of emotion on her face. She made no effort to reply and in the silence I felt myself compelled to continue. "They are the sort of nipples which demand to be sucked. Which need to be sucked." Still, she made no response, but rested enigmatically beside me. Her hand, on my arm, felt delicious. I hesitated, then continued. "Which I would like to suck."

"Would like?"

"Want."

"You want to suck my breasts?"

"Yes." My God, I had sailed so far into uncharted territory by now I was lost, whatever happened.

"But you haven't even seen them yet."

"In my mind I have."

There was silence. Marina withdrew her hand from me and sat back, a look of triumph on her face. I was having difficulty thinking straight, such was my desire for her, but even so, I could recognise from her expression that I had fallen into her trap. Ruthlessly, she pressed on, not allowing me any room to extricate myself.

"Okay, that's my breasts. What about the rest of me. Describe my cunt."

A mixture of shock and arousal filtered through my body. I was stunned by the progress of the conversation, and I was extremely uncomfortable but decidedly excited at the same time. My student had take my strictures on thought and imagination to extremes, and I was being confronted by the fruits of my teaching.

"Well, I haven't seen it 3;"

"Doesn't matter," Marina interrupted immediately, her voice tart and peremptory. "What do you imagine?"

I was in the dark now. With breasts, it is easy enough to get an idea of what they may be like, especially in someone young and lithe, like Marina. But downstairs, the facts are more difficult to discern, clues less evident. I stammered. "Well 3;" She watched me with amusement and stretched out her hand, stroking my thigh reassuringly. "I don't think you're going to be shaved." She shook her head affirmatively. "So I imagine you are quite hairy." She shook her head again, this time indicating disagreement. I changed tack. "But I expect you are well trimmed." She nodded vigorously. "Very well trimmed." Another nod. "The slightest trace, in fact." The final, conclusive nod. Now, all I had to do was describe the rest. I faltered.

"Doing okay, so far."

"Hmm." My body was on fire. I couldn't recall any event in my life which was more erotically charged than this: being asked by a woman to describe her most intimate parts - parts which I had not seen - was both exhilarating and terrifying. "I think you have very dark lips. But not particularly fleshy. Not even when aroused. I think they always stand out from your body because of their darkness, but they are very firm, very tight. And I think your pussy is small. Very short. No more than an inch."

"And what makes you think that?"

I honestly had no idea. I did believe that what I had said was correct, but I had no idea what led me to that conclusion. "I don't know."

"You just thought it?"

"Yes."

"And how do you feel just now?"

"How do I feel?"

"Yes."

How did I feel? I was more turned on than I could have believed possible. Enormous waves of anticipation and excitement were building in my stomach and abdomen. My pussy felt as though it were on fire - I knew that I was already soaked. My nipples were showing through the fabric of my bra and blouse: there was no denying it: I was seriously aroused. Did I dare say so?

"Curious," I replied.

"Curious?" Marina snorted.

"Okay, more than that. Excited."

"Excited?"

"God almighty, what do you want from me? Okay, I'll say it. I'm hot. I'm hot for you. I want you. Jesus, I want you."

"But you haven't seen me."

"No, but I've been with you all evening. Talking. Getting to know you. That's what's important. And you've forced me to think about you sexually, you can't deny that."

"No, I can't. I did. And you did think about me?"

"Yes I did. You know I did."

"And isn't that the point I wanted to make?"

"Is it?"

"How turned on are you now?"

"Marina, I want you more than you could ever know. Believe it."

"And yet I've done virtually nothing to provoke that."

"Well 3;"

"Well, no I haven't. I've touched your arm a couple of times. I've flaunted my body, for what it's worth, on occasions, but other than that - nothing."

"Well, you asked me to describe you."

"Ah yes, so I talked dirty a bit. And then what? You did the rest, didn't you? Your mind took over. Your thoughts took over."

Yes, they did. Yes, they did. My thoughts were of her. Only of her. I wanted her so much. She was so calm, so clear, so assured, sat next to me on the settee, smiling, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. How could I not think of her? "Yes," I said.

"Okay, so I'll ask it again: how turned on are you?"

My mind was disintegrating into a million pieces of desire. I wanted this woman more than anything I had ever known: I wanted her because she was so determinedly trying to turn the moment into a prosaic experience. I couldn't reciprocate. I was awash with desire and I couldn't hide it. I saw her lips and wanted to kiss them; I observed her body and wanted to hold it; I followed her breasts, her stomach, her thighs, followed their sinuous movement, and felt a hunger inside me for the beauty I could discern, but not touch.

"I want you," I said.

"You want me?"

"Yes."

"What, the little college girl from the little college town?"

"Yes, I want you."

"Okay, so I can take it that you are turned on?"

"Yes."

"Your pussy is wet, is it?"

"Yes."

"Show me."

Events were sliding out of my control. My mind was a haze. I gazed into her eyes and saw only desire - but was it my own desire reflected or hers projected? How could I know? I moved on the settee and felt for the button of my trousers. My eyes were fixed on Marina's as I unbuttoned it and slid down the zip, revealing my red panties. She nodded, giving me the courage to continue. I slid my trousers over my hips and down to my knees and sat before her, flaunting myself. She nodded once more, this extraordinarily assured young woman, and I felt myself in her grip. Despite myself, scarcely aware of what I was doing, I began to unpeel my panties, sliding them down my thighs to my knees and, without hesitating, slipping them to my ankles and shucking them free. I sat, naked from the waist, before Marina, and trembled.

"Show me," she repeated.

I spread my legs and dropped my hand towards my pussy. It was already soaked. I ran my middle finger up and down between my lips a few times, feeling it slid easily between them, and settled back on the settee, spreading my lips invitingly for Marina. The sensations which coursed through me were extraordinary: more intense than anything I had ever experienced. I felt, at once, the intimacy of sharing with a lover and the anonymity of exposure to a stranger.

"Show me how wet you are."

I showed her. I dragged my index finger across my slit, drawing up the juice my arousal had created. Between my thumb and index finger a trail of unmistakable fluids hung.

"Okay, Harriet, you are turned on, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"What's made you like that?"

"You."

"No. I've done nothing. You're sat there, naked, flaunting yourself. Am I? No, I'm not. So what caused it?"

"The thought of you. Of your body. Of sex with you. Of being with you."

"Aha, so that will be the power of thought, will it? What you taught us? All those years ago?"

"Yes," The power of thought, I told them. Information is a tool, knowledge the power supply which allows it to work, but only thought generates action.

"And the brain?"

"The brain?"

"What did you say about the brain?"

"I don't remember."

"I do. You said it one afternoon - it was a Friday, it was hot - and you looked directly at me as you said it. 'The brain is the most erogenous zone of the body.' Don't you remember?"

Frankly, no I didn't, but now wasn't the time to admit to forgetfulness. "Yes, vaguely."

"Play with yourself." I remained frozen. "I want to watch you. Do it for me, please. Imagine me naked, imagine kissing me, licking me, imagine my breasts, my belly, my cunt, my legs. That's it, that's it. Think about your lips on my nipple, brushing it, kissing, biting. Picture it, Harriet. Trailing your tongue down my stomach, licking my belly button, making me squirm, licking downwards, downwards. Guess where? Guess where? I think you can 3; I think you are. Aren't you, Harriet?"

I nodded. My index and fourth fingers were stroking either side of my clitoris, middle finger flicking gently against it from time to time. My beautifully plain young girl sat before me, fully dressed, tormenting me, arousing me to a higher degree than I had known in years. Without doing a thing. Swirls of passion began to gather in my stomach, pulsing and swarming. Darts of pleasure began to escape into my arms and legs, fingers and toes, little electric flashes, foreshadowing the pleasures to come. I flushed, a heat rushing down my face and chest, my hands growing hot and clammy. Involuntarily, my fingers speeded up, pressing harder, ever harder against my clitoris. I couldn't take much more.

"Imagine my cunt. It's just like you pictured it. It's small, and dark - very dark - and my lips are waiting for you. For your tongue. Imagine your tongue against my lips, Harriet, sliding, slipping inside me. Feel my warmth, my wetness. Lick me, Harriet, lick me. Can you see it? Can you feel it? Find my clitoris, Harriet. Suck. Suck. Do you feel it, hard in your mouth? Growing? Can you feel it, Harriet? Can you taste it?"

I was going out of my mind. Marina's talk, and the thought of what she was proposing, the urge to experience that which she was suggesting, was taking over my senses. Piece by piece, I was given over to Marina, and her moment. The room was a shadow, devoid of shape or form or light or colour; only Marina existed, sitting before me, demure and assured, expressing the dirtiest thoughts. The music had stopped, or I had stopped hearing it; I heard only her voice, the soothing, sensuous voice which was directing me to heaven. I inhaled, and I could smell her; I licked my lips and her taste was there, a fragrant, ethereal smatch. All I needed was her touch. Her touch would send me to ecstasy.

"Are you ready, Harriet?" I closed my eyes in affirmation. The muscles in my thighs were contracting, my feet cramping. I spread my legs wide, thrusting myself forward. My pussy was on fire, my clitoris the centre of a conflagration of the senses. I opened my eyes again and Marina was in front of me, kneeling between my legs. Slowly, she lowered herself and kissed me. Her lips met mine, her tongue stretched forward to lick my juices. For a second she lapped me, then trailed towards my clitoris. She kissed it. I exploded.