She remembers that first moment, when she saw that blonde halo of hair travelling through the playground. The chignon was constructed in a free-flowing but complex manner and she fell in love there and then at the age of fourteen.
Interestingly enough, there were not blue eyes in the face, but hazel ones, which twinkled with a sense of humour. A slightly tilted nose made her look younger and she had small, but lovely rose mouth.
She aspired to be fifteen, so the mysterious French lady would become her form teacher. She waited impatiently for a whole year and then came that glorious first day of September. The trepidation, the reshuffling of papers on her desk, as she waited for that first French less of the year to start and the object of her infatuation to make her entrance.
Did she fall in love all over again? Yes, she did. It was a pure love, for at the time, she could hardly surmise that two women might love one another in any other way than the one she experienced.
She craved a look, a word, a compliment, a note in purple ink on her "devoirs". She waited impatiently for lessons to finish and French lessons to start. She loathed the school holidays where they were separated. One day, she deliberately delayed the packing of her schoolbag, only to be surprised as her "Lily" struck up a conversation with her. She received the key to the French library. Soon she was devouring the books under her expert guidance. From La Chartreuse de Parme, to Madame Bovary, from Le Rouge et le Noir to Dangerous Liaisons. Once she finished Madame de Merteuil's rise and fall in society, she determined that she too would conquer. Little could she have guessed...
Elena prefers women
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She pensively studies her foot resting on the tap, while she lays there submerged in the soothing water and makes a mental note that she needs to book an appointment for a mani-pedi. The sea lavender oil is working wonders for her head, which feels heavy.
She lifts the sponge and leaves a trail of water across her torso, ending between her breasts. In just a few minutes, she will drain some of the water, and add some more hot water, thus maintaining the temperature of the bath just so. Just how she likes it. The sun still has to rise outside, but she chose to wake up early for a moment to herself.
The door to the bathroom opens. Her beloved, smiling, walks in, moving straight to where the tub is. She sits down gently on the step and looks her in the eye. She holds out her hand for the sponge, and she somewhat reluctantly relinquishes it.
Her beloved submerges the sponge in the hot water, and proceeds to rub it across her shoulder, trailing her collarbone, down to where her breasts meet. She lets go of the sponge, cups her hand and then lets the water slips through her fingers on her right nipple. The sensation is warm and pleasant. Her beloved twirls one of her curls around her fingers and then tucks it away behind her ear. She caresses her cheek.
She sighs contentedly. 
Her beloved then proceeds to place her hand between her two breasts. Her thumb starts flicking her right nipple insistantly; she smiles that mischievous smile.
She looks up at her, right eyebrow raised teasingly, then languidly lifts one leg out of the bath, over the edge, implicitly begging her to pay some attention to her lower lips and the arousal within.
Her beloved smiles a knowing smile and nods imperceptibly.
Her hand travels down, over her soft belly to her mound, covering it, kneading it gently.
She arches her back sinuously, hoping the water will cool the insistent calls inside but is surprised to find that this is not the case. Her lover's thumb finds her clit and she is surprised to find how much she needed this.
She groans hungrily as a finger slips inside, relishing the throbbing heat inside. She lifts her other leg on the edge of the bath and meets her lover's hand halfway.
Her eyelids are hooded, as she slowly retreats within, focusing on one, no two fingers inside of her, exploring the warm wetness and relishing every second of it.
Her hips start to gently dance in a rocking motion in the water as she arches her back in tune with her lover's movements. Her mouth is open; she is focused on the pleasure she receives. The need to orgasm has overtaken her mind. She lusts after the release, the wave that ripples, from her feet to her head and back, leaving her exhausted but happy time and again.
She raises her hand, and runs her nails down her own skin in frustration as she keeps up the rocking movement. Her fingers tug at her own nipples. She wants to come so badly. Her lover's hand continues to dictate her every movement, her every sensation.
Small shudders overtake her; her body loses every idea of sanity it ever had and surrenders to the capable hands of her beloved. She comes. And then, as she lies there spent, she opens her eyes, and looks up into the eyes of her soul. She is loved.
Have I ever mentioned how I love to look at your hands? I enjoy caressing their shape with my eyes, running along every line and freckle, defining the shape of your nails with them, imagining what they could do to me.
Have I ever mentioned that I am lost in thoughts during the day, when I am on my own, and I think of your hands?
I imagine them travelling across my body, tugging at my hair, tousling it, your index finger lounging lazily past my eyebrows, on my cheekbones, hesitating on my lips, continuing their travels down my chin and neck, to that soft place where my breasts meet. They discover the curve, and suddenly your hand gently weighs my breast, the thumb accidentally crossing my nipple, which is instantly aroused.
I sigh out loud contentedly. My body hums to your tune. Gently but persistently your hand continues its discovery. Down my torso, and to my hips, testing my hipbone slightly, caressing my belly, and waits.
I feel you and I want you to go on. It's all I can do not to express this need, as I arch my back. The blood is singing in my ears, my body tingles and in between my legs all is moist and ready. And you haven't even begun to touch me.
I feel your hot breath on my lips. I look into your eyes drunkenly, submissively, wantonly. I lick my lips which are aching for a kiss. Bite them in frustration. But I know better than to ask. I wait.
Your hand travels to my lower lips, explores my soft insides; a finger teases. It is the best feeling in the world and my whole body encloses around your finger, a lifeline to my core, strumming to a song of love. I want more; I wait for that second finger; and the third; until you fill me with your love.
Your body moves across me and I feel your soft breasts brush my skin, and my hand reaches for your nipples. I caress them insistently and enjoy their arousal. Your other hand tugs my hair back. And I know what comes next as you rub me insistently, dividing your attention. My hips start meeting your hand halfway and I am half mad with desire. A ripple starts working its way up from somewhere deep inside me, a gentle wave at first, growing into a rumbling crescendo and all I can think about is your hands, on me, inside of me.
I come up gasping for air and shudder, with your one hand still inside of me while the other cradles my neck. I feel like a string instrument that is being played by a maestro. I moan gently as your fingers start to strum again.
I love to look at your hands and imagine what they might do to me.
You stepped into my consciousness somewhere in January. All of a sudden, you were there. And I turned to your bubbly corner of the chat more often, looking for laughs, sharing a giggle here and there and discovering an affinity.
By February we had become inseparable. Increasingly, we spent more and more time in private chat, detecting that we had much more in common than we thought.
In March, you sent me your first real letter, written with a fountain pen, no less. A whole book arrived in my mailbox, with that first photo of a tiny blonde, with red lipstick and Doc Martens. I wondered what it would feel like to hear you talk as I read through your missive and discovered that you were a mermaid at heart.
Sometime during that month I managed to draft my own letter and so I started out in search of the perfect hand-crafted book for my paper lover. I searched high and low for my Mont Blanc fountain pen and growled in frustration when the nib got stuck in the paper. I took a photo of myself in the days where you had to wait for a photo to be developed and debated on whether I would send it or not.
Then I discovered that the cyber cafe, where I was spending my nights by then, had a webcam. I sent you a photo on the webcam and bought my first telephone card in April. I held my breath as I dialled your number and exhaled when I heard your voice. Oh, the sweet rush of blood to my face as I blushed in front of the invisible object of my affection. I craved to hear more.
One day, as I walked out of the office where I worked, I realised that airline tickets were going cheap. Especially to your side of google earth. So, during one of our nightly conversations, I worked up the gumption to suggest that I might pay you a visit. Silence. And a tentative yes. Next day I was waiting in front of the travel agent’s door.
By May, I was nauseous. And living la vida loca. Dancing on tables. Sleeping around. Thriving on a diet of Lagavulin. The night before I left, I slept with a woman who had been chasing me for seven months. I fell down the stairs and sprained my ankle. The taxi driver ended up having to open the windows because I reeked of alcohol. I remember the long, long walk from terminal to terminal in Schiphol. The KLM crew kindly provided me with an ice pack and lots of water.
I made it through immigration in spite of the alcohol content of my breath. I limped to the baggage hall and struggled past the glass door in arrivals. You jumped right at me and said hello, and I growled ‘get me out of here’ right back at you. I thought your lipstick was too bright.
I crashed on your couch for three days – after huffily noting that there was only one bed but three swimming pools (!) at your compound. You brought me a flower that resembled a frangipani. For all of those days, we danced around one another wearily, as you proceeded to dismantle my defences one by one. On the third day, you unwittingly bought me my favourite wine and did your best Kate Hepburn imitation. It was the sexiest thing I had ever heard and I knew then and there that there was no way back. My first encounter was my last. My new life had started.