Page 3 of Strap In

Jean has her card ready when the driver pulls up outside a tower of flats.

She taps it against the reader, ignoring Ava’s protests, and steps out into the cool night air.

But from there she’s lost – Jean hasn’t set foot in East London for a decade, and has no idea which block Ava even lives in.

And she is still finding her bearings when a pack of young men approach, hoods up, filling the air with obscenities.

The taxi pulls away before she can reconsider. Jean tenses, phone clutched tight in her hand.

And Ava’s hand comes to rest in the small of her back. She shouts back at a youth, undaunted. ‘You kiss your mother with that mouth, Daniel Avery?’

Daniel kisses his teeth. ‘You suck your mother with that one?’

The cacophony of laughter confirms Jean’s worst suspicions about that charming little phrase.

‘Say that shit to me again and I’ll suck your mother.’ Ava fishes keys from her pocket as she speaks, unhurried. ‘I’ll suck her pumpum so good you’ll be my stepson by summer.’

Daniel turns beet red. The group of young men fall about laughing, shoving and jeering at him, whoops echoing long after they’re out of sight. And Jean realises they’re boys really, for all that swagger, more bark than bite.

‘Sorry about that,’ says Ava, unlocking the door and holding it open. ‘They’re harmless really. But if you don’t stand up to them, they think they can get away with anything.’

‘You’ve got quite a tongue.’

Ava summons the lift and leans close. ‘Stick around and I’ll show you what else it can do.’

The pit of Jean’s belly goes tight with want. On weak legs she follows Ava into the lift. Its walls are covered in graffiti and – though there are no obvious puddles – the lift carries the distinctive reek of piss.

Catching sight of herself in the fluorescent lighting, pale and shiny-faced, Jean wonders what the hell she’s doing here.

It’s the sort of encounter that might be spun into a funny story for the girls over brunch – except for the sex of her conquest. Jean has no intention of coming out to them over mimosas, or at all.

Though Jean attempts to keep her expression neutral, Ava must read some uncertainty. She strokes Jean’s back through the wool of her coat and says: ‘Don’t worry. My flat’s nicer than this. Scout’s honour.’

Jean cracks a thin smile. Then the lift lurches to a halt. Though Jean follows Ava out into a corridor, mercifully piss-free, it’s as if her stomach remains in the lift, plummeting towards the ground floor.

Then Ava opens her door, painted deep red, and Jean follows her inside.

Though she’d never been a Scout, Ava was telling the truth about her flat.

They’re standing in a tiny living room opening into the kitchen.

The smell of spices permeates the air, traces of cooking detectable beneath the warm vanilla of candles.

The walls are cream, adorned with prints by artists Jean doesn’t recognise – all of it brightly coloured, and all featuring Black women.

There’s a compact dining table and four chairs, all painted sunny yellow.

Gauze curtains cover the balcony, strips of fairy lights hanging down from the pole, casting a gentle glow over the room.

Ava lingers by the door, uncertain, even though they’re in her home.

‘It’s gorgeous,’ Jean says, entirely truthful. And the tension melts from Ava’s shoulders.

‘Thanks!’ Ava shrugs off her blazer, folding it over the back of a chair, and holds out a hand for Jean’s. ‘Would you like some coffee? Or would you prefer a tour?’

A tour can only mean one thing. There are two doors – one must be the bathroom, and the other Ava’s bedroom.

Jean kicks off her heels and slips out of her coat, letting it pool on the floor. Takes one step, then another, closing the space between them. Looking directly into Ava’s eyes she says: ‘Give me the tour.’

Then it’s impossible to say who bridges that final gap. Ava’s lips are on hers, gentle, searching. And Jean understands what it is then, to be with a woman who steals your breath away. Her lips part as she gasps for air. And Ava’s tongue glides against hers.

Jean clings to Ava’s shoulders, uncertain that her knees alone can hold her.

And Ava’s hands are everywhere, stroking her hair, caressing Jean’s hips, cupping her cheek.

It’s as if she’s hungry for the feel of Jean, desperate to touch every part of her.

Emboldened, Jean pushes Ava towards the nearest door – the one she presumes is the bedroom, and it must be, because Ava takes her hand and pulls Jean through to another room lit by fairy lights.

There’s a double bed nestled against the wall, neatly made; an Ikea wardrobe and dresser; a bookshelf rammed with paperbacks and weighty law tomes. It’s snug but clean; cosy and comfortable. The best-case scenario for a one-night stand.

Jean’s relief lasts until Ava reaches for the light switch. Swiftly, Jean covers her hand. ‘Don’t.’

A question forms on Ava’s lips and Jean kisses it clean away.

Then, somehow, they’re perched on the edge of the mattress.

Ava’s hands, slow and sure, skimming the contours of her body.

And Jean melts into her touch. Gasps as a thumb swipes across her nipple.

Both of them, Jean realises, are rock solid; straining against the lace of her bra.

The force of her own want leaves Jean weak.

Then Ava cups her face with unexpected tenderness, caressing the sharp edge of Jean’s cheekbones.

Her fingers burrow into Jean’s hair as their lips meet, again and again.

And she pulls the combs free with a gentle, practiced ease.

Jean’s hair tumbles loose around her shoulders, and Ava looks at her with unguarded desire.

Kisses Jean’s mouth, her cheek, her throat.

Ava’s voice is barely more than a whisper, breath hot as a brand against Jean’s neck as she says: ‘I’d really like to undress you. ’

And Jean laughs at her enthusiasm, until she realises it’s a question. Ava’s hands have stilled their exploration. ‘Be my guest,’ says Jean.

Ava pulls her close; stops kissing Jean just long enough to pull the dress over her head.

Only then does it occur to Jean she’s still in her shapewear – ordinarily she’d have excused herself and reappeared in lingerie, preserving at least some vestige of feminine mystique.

But there had been no room for any thought in her head except getting closer to Ava.

And Ava doesn’t seem to mind her Spanx. Body curled around Jean’s, she plucks and circles each nipple.

Toying with them until Jean whimpers. An exquisite pleasure so sharp it’s right on the border of pain.

Jean can’t help arching towards Ava’s mouth in offering.

And Ava eases her down against the mattress, curls spilling silky soft over Jean’s arm as she lowers her head.

Ava’s lips close around her nipple, licking and suckling, relentless, until Jean’s frantic with pleasure.

Then, looking up at Jean with darkened eyes, she switches to the other side.

Starts the sweet torture all over again.

Jean strokes her hair, filled with affection for her surprise seductress.

Ava hasn’t once reached between her legs, and already Jean’s knickers are plastered to the contours of her sex.

Even after Ava pulls away, the wet lace of her bra continues to tease each bud.

Her fingers hook around the hem of Jean’s Spanx, pulling them down over her belly and kissing a trail across the newly exposed skin.

Jean can’t remember the last time anyone touched her like this, worshipping every inch of her with hands and lips and tongue.

She lifts her hips, obedient; lets Ava pull the sodden scrap of her underwear away too.

At this point the bra does little to preserve her modesty – and anyway, Jean’s too turned on to care. She unfastens the clasp and tosses it onto the floor. Then she’s naked.

For the longest moment Ava simply looks at her, pale and luminescent in the soft glow of fairy lights. Jean’s on the cusp of covering herself when at last she speaks, voice low and husky. ‘You’re stunning.’

Jean laughs, surprised – and a little uncertain – as Ava settles down beside her.

Surely, she has brought home younger, skinnier, more beautiful women.

But Ava speaks the words with the intensity of truth.

And Jean doesn’t know what to make of that at all.

She’s trembling like a virgin. And in a way, this is a first time.

Ava pulls back, tucking a strand of hair behind Jean’s ear. ‘You alright?’

Jean can only nod.

‘We can stop. I don’t want to take anything you’re not comfortable giving.’

At this Jean blinks. How many men, over the years, have given her the opportunity to turn back after they’d crossed the threshold of a bedroom door?

When she was lying naked in bed? None that she can think of.

Not even Henry. And for once the strangeness of this new experience is what makes it reassuring.

She leans up, pressing a kiss to Ava’s swollen lips.

‘I want… things I don’t know how to ask for. I want you to fuck me.’

Ava’s throat bobs. ‘Yes ma’am. You mean with my hands, or… with a toy?’

‘A toy.’ Ava’s silent for so long Jean worries she’s made a blunder. ‘Sorry, is that an urban legend?’

‘Not all lesbians have strap-ons.’ She presses a kiss to the curve of Jean’s shoulder. ‘But you’re in luck, because I do. Give me a sec.’