A Night at the Opera
The Metropolitan Opera glittered in the evening hour; casting its illuminated shadow across the dark Lincoln Square in Upper West Side New York. It was the after dinner destination of the fabulous Miranda Priestly and her newest find, Rafael Voglie. Voglie had arrived from the East, his Italian accent still unsullied and apparent. The duo had been introduced only nights before at a large soiree in honor of Voglie's new clothing line, fresh from Italy. Miranda had been taken by his fabulous needlework and anal attention to minute details. There was nothing on any piece of clothing that was out of place or had no point. Every piece of fabric, stitch, button had purpose. And it was with this insane passion that Voglie had introduced himself and then had proceeded to ask Miranda out on a date to see his friend, Andrea Battista perform in the Met's production of Tosca.
Thus far in their date, Voglie's feverish passion for his work had overpowered their conversation and it was evident that there was absolutely no sexual chemistry between them. And frankly, though Miranda was taken by his kindness and ability to make easy conversation, and the extravagance that entailed a night at the opera, Miranda was going to need a little more than wining and dining this evening. She'd been bereft of sex for over three months and she knew it was beginning to show at work. The way all her employees scampered away when they saw her coming, more so than usual. One girl had even dared to look completely frightened and had screamed, as if she'd seen a ghost, one day when she had accidentally crossed paths with Miranda. Emily even looked terrified every time she was summoned into Miranda's office.
Though Miranda enjoyed Voglie's cocky attitude as he elegantly ushered her inside the Met's front doors, guiding her gracefully through the crowd, showing her off as if she were the most beautiful woman in the world, she knew he wasn't thinking about taking her back to his hotel and ravishing her there. She was most certain that once this night was over, she'd be dropped back off at her townhouse. Tonight Voglie wanted to show off Miranda, his New York City catch, his woman of the week. And she allowed him because she hadn't been seen on a date in ages.
They were ushered to their box seats, off to the right of the stage. Miranda, from her seat, could peer down into the orchestra pit. She watched as the instrument's pegs and brass surfaces shimmered in the large chandelier lit house, bouncing their reflection off the sides of the stage. Voglie sat beside her, skimming through his program. He paused to read over his friend's biography, pointing it out to Miranda. She squinted to read the fine print and then nodded, not overly interested in Mr. Battista's long list of credits.
The lights began to dim and Miranda found herself comfortably leaning back into her seat. She was taken by the elaborate scenery which appeared as the large God-awful yellow curtain rose into the rafters of the opera house. And immediately Miranda was taken by the costumes. They were gorgeous and she could tell, even from her box seat, that these gowns were meticulously crafted. Years of research had gone into each piece so that it was perfectly representative of the time period from which it was meant to come from.
The instant the soprano entered the stage, completely filled to the brim with what only a wonderful singing actress can fill herself with, Miranda felt a flutter in her stomach. The woman portraying Tosca was absolutely stunning and her dress matched her delicate features. The golden silk like fabric of the dress accented the soprano's dark locks. As her voice soared over the orchestra, Miranda began to wonder why Runway had never done a shoot with beautiful opera stars in their elegant gowns. She made a mental note to include that in the next staff meeting. It would go wonderfully with the layout for the December issue. The beautiful 1800s pieces would look exquisite next to the winter garments Miranda was now mentally beginning to piece together. She knew what the house of Chanel, Dior, Yves Saint Laurent, and several other big names were planning. Samples had already been sent. She had already begun to make a list of items that would go well together. The fabulous opera gowns would fit in just fine. Yes, she would make it a point to include them.
Realizing she was missing out on part of the action, Miranda returned her attention to the opera. She quickly caught up, her concentration on the piece only broken when Voglie's large, Italian hand came to rest on her knee. She glanced down at his hand, not sure what to make out of the contact. She was not turned on, nor was she particularly happy that he had decided to place it there. But ever the people pleaser, if the person happened to be important like Voglie, Miranda smiled at him and turned her attention back to the stage, praying and hoping for the intermission to arrive soon. She felt disgusting with him so close to her, invading her personal space.
When Scarpia entered, towards the end of Act I, Voglie had the audacity to squeeze Miranda's knee. He leaned in, his lips inches from her ear. "There is Andrea." His voice was thick with excitement at seeing his friend. Miranda gave him a faux smile of excitement and then turned her attention back to the stage. Avoiding further contact, Miranda leaned away from Voglie, acting intrigued by the rather familiar music. For this was not Miranda's first viewing of Tosca. No, she'd seen this opera several times. The songs were gorgeous, and she knew the storyline quite well. She knew that it was soon going to be the end of the act and she eagerly awaited Scarpia's singing of how he would bend Tosca towards his favor.
The instant the curtain fell and the singers came out for a brief curtain call, Miranda excused herself. "I'm going to get a drink." She explained, Voglie nodded, telling her that he was going to sneak backstage to see his friend. Miranda was glad to get rid of him, and as she headed out to the lobby, she spotted the bar. A drink was in order if she was going to have to sit through the next two acts next to him. He with his large, manly hand that felt so unnatural on her leg. It felt all wrong.
As soon as Miranda had a glass of champagne, she leaned idly against the end of the bar, taking in all the elderly (though some were young) opera patrons around her. She could tell, just from a quick glance, who had designed their wardrobe, and which ones were flops and which ones worked. A woman wearing Valentino passed by, her Burberry scent lingering long after she had passed. Another wore Chanel, a black pants suit. It was an obvious flop, completely with too many accessories and a giant, aged broach to add injury to insult. "Distasteful," Miranda muttered into her glass.
As she glanced on, however, an image appeared. A beautiful young girl, with long dark brunette hair wearing dark black trousers from Chloe, a ruffled white shirt from Dior, Chanel necklace, and Jimmy Choo shoe's, with a beautiful Versace bag, mindlessly floated down the stairs, into the sea of black dresses and gray hair. She looked oddly familiar, her large brown, doe eyes immediately giving her identity away.
But why was SHE here? Miranda angrily wondered, hoping and praying that it was only an apparition. But as the girl moved closer, Miranda realized she was real. Very, very real.
As soon as the girl locked eyes with Miranda's fiery blue ones, she looked rather put off and confused. Since it was apparent that they had seen one another, and because it would have been rude to walk away, the brunette approached.
"Good evening, Andrea." Miranda lifted an eye-brow, allowing herself to give the girl another looking over, this time much, much more thorough.
"Hi, Miranda." Andrea looked nonplused. She didn't squirm under Miranda's critical eye, not like she used to.
"I didn't expect to see you tonight," Miranda exclaimed, her eyes meeting Andrea's.
"Nor did, I." Andrea shrugged, trying to look away from Miranda, but finding she couldn't.
And it was then that Miranda decided who she wanted that night. And Miranda always got what she wanted. That flutter in her stomach alerted her to the fact that this girl was doing more things to her than Voglie's hand on her thigh ever would. And God, the girl was gorgeous. Even more so than she had been all those many months ago when Miranda had tortured her daily, when she had acted as Miranda's assistant. Or had it been a year? Had a year really gone by?
"What are you doing here?" Miranda's tone was even, almost uncaring. Though the warmth that spread to her checks surely had to give her away. Andrea had to know by now how to read it; she used to read her very, very well.
"An article, for The Mirror. They give me free tickets, I write about the performance. It's nice, actually." Andrea smiled, moving to the other side of Miranda so she could order a drink.
"So you're not here with anyone?" Miranda questioned, looking to see if Andrea had been followed by some handsome young man, or woman…whatever it was that Andrea was into these days.
"No, I only get one ticket." Andrea explained, taking her drink from the bartender.
"Ah," Miranda watched as Andrea sipped her drink, her neck tempting, as it had always been, as she leaned her head back ever so slightly.
"Are you here with someone?" Andrea asked, glancing around.
"Yes." Miranda nodded, though her eyes were yet to leave the soft skin of Andrea's neck, her cheek.
"Oh," Andrea nodded, her brow creasing slightly in a frown.
"He has a friend, in the show. He went back to see him." Miranda explained, though she had no idea why she was doing so. She found that she never explained herself to anyone…except Andrea. She realized that she always had to explain herself to her. Though she couldn't quite explain why.
Andrea glanced around and then leaned in, "how have you been?"
Leave it to her to think that this could become personal. Miranda pursed her lips, almost subconsciously and Andrea recoiled, afraid for a moment, as she had been a year ago. "Fine." Miranda finally exhaled, sipping her wine.
The bell began dinging, signaling that the second act would begin in five minutes.
"Oh, I have to get back upstairs." Andrea exclaimed, looking almost relieved to have an out from this awkward conversation with Miranda.
Though Miranda, like always, had other plans. Without moving from her spot, she reached out and gently grabbed Andrea's arm, pulling her very, very close. Close enough that her lips could almost touch Andrea's ear. "I'll be in the bathroom during 'Vissi D'arte'." And with that she released Andrea's arm.
Andrea glanced at her apprehensively. There were thousands of bathrooms, and she had no idea which one would be the chosen one, but like always she knew not to question Miranda, and also she knew that if it was going to happen then she would chose the right one.
Miranda almost smiled as Andrea walked away, disappeared into the crowd.
And as she finished her champagne she realized it was time to go back. Back to her seat. Back to Voglie. She wished, for a moment, that it was Andrea she was going back to.
As she took her seat, she felt a large hand touch her back, alerting her to the fact that Voglie was back. He leaned down to kiss her joyfully, before taking his seat. She grimaced, trying her hardest not to wipe away the kiss he had so nicely given her. Instead of pursing her lips, she smiled at him, her heart beginning to race as the lights dimmed and the curtains rose once more.
After several intense moments, the high point of the scene began. As Voglie's friend Andrea, who was playing Scarpia began to torment the beautiful Tosca, in an attempt to rape her, Miranda's heart was fluttering. She felt for Tosca, as she was backed onto a bed, Scarpia harassing her. And it was at that moment that she excused herself, relieved to get away from Voglie; though he had not tried to touch her again, as of yet.
She leaned over and whispered that she needed to go to the bathroom. Voglie nodded, completely enraptured by what was happening on the stage before him.
Miranda quickly made her exit, nodding at the usher who was waiting at the box seat entrance door. She made her way out into the lobby, heading towards the nearest bathrooms. As she entered, she realized that a bathroom attendant was sitting in the corner. She would have to deal with her later.
Now, Miranda fluffed her hair in the mirror and waited, sated in wetness at the very thought of what was about to occur.
Through the speakers in the bathroom she could hear the beginning of the aria. If Andrea knew anything about the opera she would know when to come. And it was in the fifth measure of music that the door swung open and Andrea appeared. Miranda's breath escaped her.
She moved towards the largest bathroom stall, not closing the door all the way, hoping that the attendant was not paying attention. She was relieved when Andrea followed her inside and locked the bathroom stall door behind her.
Miranda let out a nearly silent groan as Andrea turned to face her; the noise was masked by the beautiful soprano line running through the sound system.
Andrea moved closer to Miranda, close enough to back her into the wall. Miranda allowed herself to submissively be taken over. One of Andrea's hands moved to cup her mouth, the other reached down to pull her skirt up. And in this very action, Miranda was suddenly inundated with memories of this happening all those many months before. Andrea would fuck her in the Runway bathroom, after work on her desk, in the car on the way to events, after soirees and dinners, when she delivered the book. The places were endless as well as the fucking. Miranda had taken Andrea a number of times, but for some reason Andrea insisted she do the work.
Tonight, however, as Andrea ran her fingers up Miranda's bare leg, she didn't look quite as excited as she once had. Instead she looked rather angry, which caused the sensation between Miranda's thighs to waver, if only momentarily, for Andrea's fingers tickling her thigh was making her twitch uncontrollably, her wetness evident. She twisted to the side, trying her hardest not to call out.
Two fingers pushed her underwear aside, but then moved away. This time, Andy was going to get Miranda involved. She reached out from beneath her skirt, grabbed one of Miranda's limp hands, and pulled it beneath the Yves Saint Laurent pencil skirt. Miranda moaned against Andy's hand, glad that the soprano was also moaning along with her, in a more musical way.
Four fingers slipped deep inside of Miranda, two her own and two vaguely familiar. Andrea guided them, in and out, gentle at first, no attention paid to Miranda's throbbing clit. But soon that was taken care of. Andrea's thumb moved over the tender bundle of nerves, sending Miranda's head back against the wall, her hips bucking forward. She was glad for the support bar behind her.
Fingers moved deep, in and out, out and in, in and out, out and in. They twisted, fingers lightly tickled, Andrea's thumb began to move roughly, sensing that Miranda's walls were about to cave. They only had a moment before Miranda would come. And as if like magic, a quick, deep thrust, followed by a flick of her clitoris, and her walls came rushing down, tightening around the fingers still deep inside of her. She bit hard against Andrea's hand, trying with all her might not to yell.
The aria ended perfectly along with her, and she fell back against the wall, breathing heavily. Andrea removed herself and Miranda's assisting fingers and studied the older woman. "I'm not going to keep doing this for you." She whispered, her voice nasty, disheartening after the fantastic orgasm she had just given Miranda.
And with that she left the stall.
Miranda, flustered, flushed, and confused, used the bathroom, wiped away some wetness, and then exited the stall. She found Andrea washing furiously at her hand. She frowned, through studying her red face in the mirror. She would need to touch up her make-up. She quickly pulled out her lipstick, and foundation, reapplying both to needed areas. Andrea reached over and grabbed Miranda's lipstick and used it to touch up her perfectly untouched lips.
Miranda watched, wishing momentarily that their relationship consisted of kissing instead of just fucking. But that just wouldn't be acceptable. Miranda Priestly did not allow herself to become involved with women.
Andrea quickly exited the bathroom and Miranda, looking, for the first time since she'd entered, at the bewildered bathroom attendant, tossed a hundred in the woman's direction and placed her finger to her lips to signal to the woman that she should never speak of what she just heard or witnessed ever again. The woman looked quite surprised and shrugged, pocketing the hundred.
Once outside the bathroom, Miranda had to walk rather quickly to catch up with Andrea.
"What is your problem?" She asked, grabbing Andrea's arm, whirling her around on her heels.
"My problem?" Andrea was incredulous.
"Yes." Miranda sharply exhaled, not one to repeat herself.
"I think it is your problem."
"My problem?" Miranda looked quite shocked to be talked back to.
"Yes."
"And what might my problem be?" Miranda inquired angrily.
"That you can't quite seem to wrap your head around the fact that you're gay."
Miranda half laughed at the comeback. "I'm gay? Really, Andrea." Miranda moved forwards, lowering her voice. "Let me tell you something, Andrea Sachs. Miranda Priestly is not gay." Her eyes were threatening, her tone chilling, but Andrea could see right through the bullshit.
"Miranda Priestly isn't gay, my ass." Andrea cried.
"Andrea!" Miranda cried, pulling the girl into a corner, away from prying ears and eyes.
"Oh, but you are. You make it seem like you'd never touch it, that it's a common affliction. But Miranda, I'm afraid to tell you that you are very, very gay. That's why you're out here letting me fuck you instead of in there with whatever man you're pretending to date at the moment."
Miranda shifted, her eyes moving away from Andrea, giving over to her discomfort with the subject matter. She had been fighting it all her life and she never, ever thought it would have to be confronted. Not like this. What she and Andrea had, had been perfectly fine until this…this little outburst.
"Miranda, why can't you just admit to it?"
Miranda stepped away, glancing out the window, trying to avoid the question. Her cheeks were red with embarrassment.
"Do you know why I left you? In Paris?" Andrea was behind her now, her hand, her small hand, gently resting on Miranda's shoulder. This time it felt right, it wasn't invading, but rather quite nice, good. Perfect. "Because you wouldn't admit to me, or to anyone, what we had." Andrea paused, her breath warm on Miranda's shoulder. "We could have been something, Miranda." Andrea whispered, her lips dangerously close to Miranda's ear, tempting her, causing her wetness to grow once again.
Miranda didn't speak, only closed her eyes, afraid of what was happening. Not liking the fact that she wasn't in control. Not liking the fact that her sexuality had even become an issue.
"All right, don't speak. But don't ever expect me to do what I just did ever again." Andrea's voice was soft, but serious. And it was in that moment that something inside of Miranda broke. She didn't want to lose this woman ever again; she didn't want to be without her for the rest of her life, as she had thought she would be almost a year ago, when Andrea had left her in Paris.
"Wait." Miranda turned, her eyes filled with unshed tears.
Andrea stopped dead in her tracks and turned to face Miranda.
Andrea seemed to read her expression, knew what she was thinking.
"I'm willing…" Miranda's voice was a whisper.
Andrea's grim look turned into a slight, almost undetected smile. She stepped back towards Miranda and leaned in ever so slightly. Their lips touched in an electrifying, magnificent moment, and soon both were caught up in a kiss. Their first, real kiss. Lips fought, tongues collided, teeth accidentally hit together. And by the time they parted Miranda was panting and ready for more. But Andrea shook her head. "Tonight, after the show. Come by my place."
And with one more kiss Andrea turned and left, and Miranda suddenly swelled with a feeling she had never felt before. It could only be described as true contentment, complete happiness, and the feeling of fulfillment that only one emotion could provide.
Love.
Miranda Priestly was in love with Andrea Sachs.