He would walk her from one class to the other, even if it meant he was late to his own. He would always meet her in the morning, with a smile and her cup of hot chocolate in hand, and she had grown so comfortable, that she began greeting him with a hug. One day, as they sat waiting for class to begin, he sat staring at her as she explained the notes to him from a previous class. He barely noticed what she said, as he thought about how cute she looked sitting with one hugged against her chest in her desk, and holding her cup of hot chocolate with both hands trying to warm up. He could no longer resist, he leaned in as she was in the middle of her sentence, and kissed her softly. She tensed up, but only for a moment and then she closed her eyes savoring the feel of his lips. He lingered, loving how soft her tongue felt against his and tasting her hot chocolate on her lips. They heard someone else enter the class room and immediately shot back to reality, a fierce blush rising in both. She had, she said, some clothes which might be of use and she would ensure her cook fed me well. Indeed, she said, I needed feeding and she was right. I was a poor specimen and no mistake. As we drove through the busy London streets she asked of my background and, quite candidly, I told her much as I have revealed here. That woman was a saint. True to her word she had me bathed, fed and clothed. I had never in my life felt warm water on my skin before. Neither my body nor my hair had in all my life been washed with more than cold water. It is hard now to recall how luxurious felt clean clothes upon my poor body. Over the following days and weeks, during which I was given menial tasks and responsibilities, my condition improved and when I saw myself in one of the fine mirrors of her household I saw a new woman. I never left her employ after that. Mistress Pickles’ house was, I was to discover, a salon for ladies who, like me and Mrs Pickles herself, favoured the sexual intimacy of.
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