Suzanne was a classical singer. Not just a singer of a classical repertoire, but the classic wide-bodied, full-faced, stacked-hair Mezzo-Soprano. The woman had presence when she was on the stage. Traveling the world, singing night after night to packed opera houses around the world to standing ovations and glowing reviews from the critics...

One of whom was sitting here in her living room, obviously in awe, and yet still managing to keep his own presence. A kind of predatory, knowing, "I can have you when I want you" look that didn't really seem like it belonged on a rumpled intellectual who barely knew her. She wasn't usually in the habit of granting interviews at home, but he lived nearby and he always wrote such nice things about her no matter how many half-as-talented up-and-coming prima donna divas were gracing the stage.

He'd showed up earlier than she remembered suggesting, the doorbell ringing while she luxuriated in bed, remembering the excellent fucking she'd gotten the night before, but at the same time thinking, as she tweaked the hard nipples on the breasts that men always seemed to find surprisingly small, that she could have used another one this morning if she was going to have as relaxed a rehearsal as she'd really like this afternoon. At first she'd pretended not to hear the bell, figuring maybe he'd come back later, wondering who the hell this critic thought he was, but her husband, always polite, and always out of bed much sooner, was already answering the door.

So here she sat. Sipping on a cup of coffee. Answering questions by rote, almost smiling her most seductive smile, tossing her hair just a little, shifting her weight in her chair so the nipples were nearly visible through the silk kimono she'd thrown on before coming downstairs, exposing tiny expanses of leg, tracing small circles on the plush carpet with her bare foot, arching her neck slightly, watching how he half-asked, half-stared, noting with satisfaction the erection which was growing beneath the hand which held his pad, as her husband dashed about the room trying to gather everything he needed to take to work.

Saying "excuse me" her husband bent over to kiss her, and partly because he'd fucked her so well the night before, and partly for the benefit of the interviewer she put down the coffee mug and kissed him hard back, with plenty of tongue, the kind of kiss she suspected most men would expect from a Diva; making no effort to avoid accidental exposure of one exquisitely shaped breast.

Then he was gone, briefcase in hand, locking the door behind him. She picked up the coffee, and smiled again, asking "where were we?" listening to the question, the slam of the car door, the purr of the ignition, and the little bumping noise that the Mercedes always made as it left the driveway and turned into the street.

She stood as she answered the question, still talking as she walked to the foot of the stairs, watching him start to his feet as she ascended towards the bedroom, almost floating up the stairs on the balls of her feet, still talking between sips of coffee as the kimono fluttered down the stairwell.

Having finished her answer she placed the coffee cup decisively but gently in the middle of the bedside table and arranged herself on all fours in the middle of the bed, ready for the taking, smiling to herself as she heard him enter the room behind her, wet with anticipation of a thorough fucking, a relaxed rehearsal, a stupendous performance, and another excellent review.