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She had harbored little idea of what to expect when she had arrived at the sprawling Long Island pile.
That Miranda had seen fit to invite Andy - Andy! - to her summer home was stunning enough.
That Miranda would put her up and have her husband show her to an absolutely beautiful bedroom, even more so.
And that was before the shock of interacting with Miranda herself. Not Runway Miranda. Hamptons Miranda.
Hamptons Miranda, who had foregone her customary stilettos for…sneakers. And her outfit - it wouldn't have looked out of place in Martha Stewart's wardrobe. (Although Andy thought Miranda would never be so reckless as to wind up doing time.)
Hamptons Miranda, who swirled her around the gorgeous garden with the air of a consummate waltz dancer, introducing Andy to a pantheon of literary and journalistic titans with a giddy air and positively warm tone.
Even the momentary panic of realising she'd manage to stain the loaned dress couldn't hold a whisper of a candle to the near out of body experience of encountering Miranda in the kitchen. It was embarrassing, really, in a sense, how Andy had sworn she'd undergone significant personal growth over the past two decades, only to feel like her very soul had been set alight upon being on the receiving end of praise from Miranda. Glowing praise. Effusive praise. She shook her head in disbelief at herself as she realised that she'd probably be prepared to sell at least two non-critical organs if it meant she'd receive more of the same in the future.
***
It being summer, the sun took quite a while to begin its steady descent from high in the sky. But eventually the light turned golden, and with it came a slow trickling away of assembled guests. Miranda was sure to have staff, but Andy thought there would be little harm in helping fold away furniture, take a few dirty glasses back inside and the like, which was how she found herself once more in the kitchen. Gazing through the window, she realised that she couldn't see anyone else at all - not one straggler - and that she was alone.
Well. Not entirely. Light, slightly mismatched footsteps alerted her to Miranda's presence in the doorway.
"Oh, there you are."
She smiled - smiled back, and the traitorous observation of just how lovely Miranda appeared wearing a contented grin perked up from the back of her brain. Shaking it away, she tried very hard indeed not to think about her admission to Lily. Specifically, how the last two coworkers she'd slept with happened to have short silver hair.
"Here I am!" she replied cheerfully. Miranda swanned further into the space, breezily and merrily, and then proceeded to grasp one of the half-full bottles of rosé and thrust it into Andy's hands.
"Uh - "
" - We're celebrating, aren't we? The night is young. Pour yourself some more of that and join me on the porch."
Andy reflexively looked around for Stuart, figuring Miranda would probably want to include him in her libations.
"Yes - should I get your husband?"
"Oh, no," Miranda hummed. "He doesn't drink. But you" - she jabbed one immaculately manicured finger in Andy's direction, leaning forward so far that for a moment she feared the Editor would actually poke her in the chest - "you. You'll keep me company, won't you?"
"Yes, Miranda."
***
As they sat on the porch, watching the contents of the bottles in front of them magically disappear, inch by inch, Andy couldn't help but reflect on just how much time seemed to have changed Miranda. Emily's own remark about her own confidence came back to her, and she wondered if the opposite effect had taken hold of Miranda. No, no. That wasn't quite wrong. It wasn't a diminished confidence, per se. Perhaps mellowing. Even if only slightly. Even if only once people had demonstrated competence to her.
Although competence in all areas of life seemed to have temporarily deserted the Editor, for:
"Oh, dear," Miranda giggled. "I appear to have…misplaced my glasses."
Andy grimaced. "Want me to try and find them?"
The older woman cleaved one hand dismissively through the air. "No, no. They'll turn up eventually."
Andy chose not to comment on the fact that she knew Miranda was barely capable of clear sight without them.
***
An hour or so later, she slid into bed, stretching out luxuriously, relishing the sensation of ludicrously expensive sheets brushing against her skin. Perhaps there was something to be said for upgrading her living conditions. It had been delightful to experience water from a tap which ran clear and immediate. That wasn't too much to ask, was it? It wasn't as if she was dreaming of a house of this size, with this many bedrooms…
It struck her - suddenly, randomly - that she had no idea exactly how far away Miranda and Stuart were. Why that caused a knot to twist sharply in the depths of her abdomen, she chose not to consciously examine. Instead, she focused on attempting to lose consciousness.
***
Partway through her endeavor, the door clicked open. She didn't dare to turn around, figuring whoever it was would realise their mistake soon enough. In any case, the darkness was so absolute - the blackout curtains surely being of the highest quality - that Andy wasn't certain she'd have been able to make out the identity of the intruder even if she had rotated to face the entryway.
The door shut again with perhaps slightly more force than she would have expected, and clumsy footsteps made their way closer to her. She heard the sharp tug of a zipper and the unmistakable sound of shoes being shod, and she held her breath with a ferocity that would have put a champion sea-diver to shame.
And then the mattress dipped. The comforter lifted. And a body dropped next to her, followed by an arm slinging over her waist - firmly, decisively.
Andy felt her eyes widen to the absolute maximum capacity anatomy would allow. For the scent of floral sweat and wine emanating from the half-dressed person pressing into her back left her in no doubt whatsoever as to their identity.
"He-lloo, darling," Miranda purred - well. It was a mixture between a purr and a slur.
Andy opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again.
"Um - Miranda?" she whispered, and the sound was imbued with all the gravitas of a cat hit by a hosepipe.
She'd anticipated mortification, a stiffening of body, an immediate withdrawal. What she got instead was a low rumble of laughter.
"Oh dear," Miranda said, clearly amused. "I thought you were Stuart. That teaches me to wilfully forego my glasses, doesn't it?"
Andy ran her tongue over her upper teeth, unsure of what to say. Miranda tightened her hold on her.
"I can confirm I'm not your husband," she offered weakly.
"Indeed you are not. And yet you have made no move to extricate yourself."
What on earth? As Andy attempted to make sense of that particular comment - was that a hint that she should? If so, why was Miranda continuing to cling to her like a limpet? - an even more disconcerting observation struck her.
Namely, that the tips of Miranda's fingers had drifted upwards, and were now a hair's breadth away from making contact with her breasts.
So, naturally, she shifted - only slightly. And such was her luck that Miranda followed, and jerked her hand upwards. Which led to her actively covering Andy's right breast with her hand.
With a slow, dawning horror, Andy realised that her nipples were indisputably hard. And there was no way that Miranda could possibly fail to notice, such was the thinness of the shirt she was wearing, otherwise appropriate to a balmy summer night.
"Oh." A little puff of surprise escaped the older woman.
And still, she did not move away.
"Do you - object to this, Andrea?" came the whispered question.
"Um, Miranda," Andy said awkwardly. "No. But I'm not sure how Stuart would feel about you, um. Doing that."
"Oh, no," Miranda murmured, as if Andy had made no more than an errant comment about the weather, "that's not a problem. We have…an arrangement."
"An arrangement?" Andy repeated.
"Mmm-hmm. He is, ahem, bisexual, and in general we have… mismatched libidos. I trust him to take the necessary precautions, and so long as he does, he may seek supplementary male companionship. We agreed the same principle applied on my end. I have just never seen fit to use it."
Sorry, Andy thought. Sorry, was she - to copy Emily's phrase - having a hallucination? Because it sounded awfully like Miranda Priestly had just admitted to being in an ethically non-monogamous quasi-queer marriage. And they said she wasn't with the times...
"And now you do?" she asked disbelievingly.
"Hmm," Miranda replied. "While I maintain that I genuinely believed this to be my own bedroom, I find myself uninclined to move. If you are amenable, that is."
Well. Well. Andy bit her lip, and the phrase 'never look a gift horse in the mouth' rose to mind. Sure, there was a power disparity going on. Sure, it wasn't HR compliant in the slightest. Sure, she wasn't entirely convinced that this was even real - that it wasn't a cruel dream. But in any case, the differential between them wasn't quite what it had once been, and she was certain that if she declined now, such an opportunity would never, ever come knocking again.
So it was with a Herculean struggle to keep the surprise from her tone that she said, "I'm amenable."
Miranda's forehead pressed into the nape of her neck, and soft lips pressed against her upper back alerted her to the fact that the Editor was smiling. Then the contact retreated.
"Turn around, then," Miranda whispered.
***
Andy cursed the darkness. She really did. What she would do to see what was in front of her…
Miranda may not have smelled like her typical perfume. As Andy ran her fingers through it, she noticed that her hair was thinner. As she cupped her face, her thumb roved over a less-defined jaw. As her lips moved over Miranda's, she felt a splay of deeply-etched lines at the edges.
And Andy had never been more aroused.
When they eventually broke for air, Andy's leg slotted between Miranda's thighs, she attempted to unbutton the older woman's shirt. Unfortunately, manual dexterity seemed to have abandoned her a little, so it took rather longer than she would have liked.
"Could you go any slower?" Miranda complained.
And perhaps it was the lateness of hour, or the amount of alcohol consumed, but boldness suffused through her form.
"How much do you care about this shirt, Miranda?"
A sudden, sharp intake of breath alerted her to the fact that Miranda had cottoned on to what she was about to do.
"Not in the slightest," the Editor breathed.
"Excellent," Andy grinned, and tore it clean in two in the manner of a particularly theatrical Western cowboy. The buttons scattered around them, a few hitting the floor with a delightful click. She raised her hands to Miranda's shoulders, and tried to pull the fabric down and off. But Miranda whined in annoyance and pulled her closer, instead.
Which was how Andy learned that Miranda wasn't wearing a bra.
"Were you like this all day?" she asked, hardly believing her discovery.
Miranda giggled. "Not for most of it. I lost the bra when I went to the bathroom at one point."
"How on earth -"
" - It was bothering me. I threw it behind the wastepaper basket."
Andy bit back a laugh of her own, and focused on a rather more pressing task. The task being sliding her hands down to cup and grope Miranda's breasts. As the pads of her thumbs ghosted over pleasingly hardened nipples, Miranda's head tipped back, lips parted, and she let out a breathy, uncharacteristically high-pitched moan.
Which, of course, set off a fresh round of violent throbbing between Andy's own legs. She squirmed and began to tilt her hips back and forth, chasing delicious friction against Miranda's bare thigh.
Then she reached up and tugged on Miranda's long necklace, which save for the torn shirt and silk panties was the only thing she still wore.
Miranda got the message and stilled.
"Lie back," Andy whispered.
"Don't you dare tell me to think of England."
Andy rolled her eyes, and remembered that Miranda couldn't see her.
"Mind if I turn on the bedside light?"
"By all means," Miranda said. "But do be quick about it. You know how I love to wait."
A deft flick of the lamp and the room was illuminated in a soft amber hue. When she glanced back, it was to see Miranda splayed out over the bedspread with all the grace of a Renaissance nude. Blue eyes watched the visible gulp which travelled down Andy's throat with consummate satisfaction.
Andy repositioned herself on the bed, crawling down on all fours. Then she reached out and slotted her hand between their legs, stroking up the length of a pale thigh before rubbing two fingers over the dampened silk. She could make out the folds of Miranda's center underneath her panties, and lazily traced over them, then moved to run along the edge of the underwear. Miranda whimpered, causing Andy to shiver.
"Andrea - " Miranda cut off, strangled.
The younger woman smiled and planted a soft kiss on the Editor's lower belly, directly over a long-faded but nonetheless silvery scar. She slipped her fingers under the material and began to draw firm little revolutions and circles over Miranda's rapidly swelling clit. The soft groans coming from above grew interspersed with desperate little gasps. Andy scooted up a little, keeping her hand where it was, and proceeded to capture a nipple between her lips. As she sucked, she made the delightful discovery that Miranda responded particularly strongly to a light scraping of teeth, a certain degree of roughness. After she had switched to the other and administered the same treatment for a while, the desire to go inside became overwhelming. Yet with a sinking heart, she registered that there wasn't any lube to hand, and the arousal she had gathered on her fingers might not be enough.
And then her heart picked up again. She removed her fingers from under the panties - determinedly ignoring the resulting squeak of displeasure - and raised them to Miranda's lips, raising a singular eyebrow in clear challenge.
"Taste yourself."
Miranda's pupils grew even more impossibly dilated. She opened her mouth and raised her head to take the digits in, swirling her tongue around. As much as Andy would have been perfectly content to stay like that for a while, to simply relish the sensation, she knew that Miranda would be rather less so. So she delicately extricated her fingers, and in a flash of inspiration lifted them to her own lips, sucked a few times and returned them to where Miranda desired most, lowering their bodies so that their breasts pressed together as she did so.
***
If this wasn't a hallucination, she could die happy. As she thrust in and out of the Editor at a steady pace, it occurred to her that this might not be a terrible way to go, full stop. Here lies Andrea Sachs, who perished while inside Miranda Priestly. Huh.
The laughter she managed to bite back at that thought quickly turned to a gasp. Miranda had splayed out one hand over her back, Andy's head buried in her neck, and upon a particularly vigorous pump dragged her nails down Andy's spine with equal vehemence.
Even when the younger woman altered her pace, Miranda's scratching didn't let up.
Yet Andy found she loved the idea of being marked by Miranda. Even if she daren't wear anything which could remotely expose them to anyone else's eyes, she knew she would spend the next few days in blessed consciousness of the secret tapestry etched across her shoulderblades and down her spine.
Well, she thought. Two could play at that game. Miranda's legs had begun to stiffen, the raking of her nails growing progressively less coordinated.
Therefore as soon as Miranda began to shake in earnest, Andy bit down, sinking her teeth into the juncture of where neck met shoulder.
She was really rather glad she hadn't died earlier, as happy as she would have been to do so. After all, had that been the case, she would never have been gifted the knowledge of what Miranda sounded like when she screamed.
***
With a strength that no one of Miranda's age - let alone one who had experienced an orgasm mere seconds previously - ought to possess, the Editor pounced forward like a cat and flipped their positions.
"Oof!" Andy exclaimed, head smacking against the pillows.
"Scoot up," Miranda commanded. "Sit against the headboard. And spread your legs."
She scarcely had time to comprehend exactly what Miranda was proposing to do, and reflexively complied with the order.
"Put your hands on my shoulders," Miranda continued, adjusting herself so that her front was flat on the bed and hands were curled around each of Andy's thighs, holding them apart. "And keep them there."
It was an almighty struggle, but she managed it. As long as she lived, Andy doubted she would ever forget the visual of dishevelled white hair buried between her legs, or the sensation of a normally acid tongue sweeping over her core, probing inside, causing her to make sounds she didn't even know she was capable of.
And she certainly wouldn't forget the image of Miranda's face when it was all over, wearing Andy's arousal like a badge of honor, grinning with all the triumph of an Olympic gold medallist.
***
The next morning, Andy awoke to find herself alone.
But she awoke with a smile on her face. A smile which would not disappear for several hours. And even then, it only vanished when she realised she'd have to explain the stained dress to Nigel.
("Don't be ridiculous, Andrea," Miranda had said. "I shall simply send Stuart to make it up to him.")
FIN