Author's Note

I keep having all of these disparate ideas for Mirandy, and I've finally decided to write them all down in a sort of catch-all collection, so these are just oneshots that don't necessarily tie into each other.

A few housekeeping notes:
-Different oneshots will naturally rate differently, but I've marked the entire collection as mature just to cover my bases.
-I'm marking this as complete because each chapter is a completed story, but I'll add to it when the mood strikes me.

It surprised her, their first time—in just about every possible way.

Miranda had never considered herself a particularly sexual being. Sure, she enjoyed sex when it was good, which it had mostly been with her first husband and had rarely been with her second. And she'd had a few lovers over the years who were particularly skilled, which she'd quite enjoyed at the time. But she did not crave sex often. Or so she'd thought.

Andrea had changed her mind, or, perhaps, changed her libido, or both.

"Taking things slow" had translated into months spent flirting, teasing, daring. For all that Andrea wanted to take her time, she never ceased to push the boundaries and leave little doubt in Miranda's mind that the sex, when they finally had it, would be phenomenal.

From the kisses they shared alone, she knew it would be fantastic. Andrea was forever surprising Miranda with the tone and tempo of these kisses, some so quick and light they left Miranda wondering if they'd even happened, some so unbearably long and soft it felt like they were making love without ever removing their clothes, and some so heated and demanding Miranda was left soaked and panting and aching for the little vixen.

And oh, what a vixen she was. Andrea knew precisely what she was doing, and she was not afraid to torture them both, and often.

Miranda knew, knew the brunette was just as aroused as she by these exchanges. Andrea's typically deep, chocolate irises would turn a near pitch black, gleaming and twinkling and teasing the editor. Her breath would quicken in time with Miranda's, her chest heaving where they pressed up against each other. Her cheeks would flush the subtlest, loveliest shade of pink—starkly different from the dusky blush Miranda could occasionally coax from her with a teasing jibe.

But the best signs, the ones Miranda only got when they were alone—or as alone as they could be with two teenagers in the house—those signs were the whimpers and gasps and moans Andrea made no effort to silence. They were the signs that made Miranda thank god the girls were, at this dreadful age, perpetually attached to their earbuds and that din they called music. And those sweet sounds were all the more scintillating once Miranda had realized—from bouts of mutually lost control in places that were unfortunately not free of teenage ears—that Andrea could silence herself when need be. Miranda wasn't sure which turned her on more: the maddening noises that spoke of exactly how much she affected Andrea or the strenuously suppressed breaths that told her how much it took Andrea to stay quiet. She was quite content to hear both as often as possible.

In any case, there had been a great deal of kissing, not that Miranda was complaining. Andrea had such skill and patience that these heady exchanges felt less like clumsy, horny make-out sessions—the likes of which Miranda had not deemed to engage in since she was a teenager—and more like extended, endless foreplay, with stops and starts and pauses for their daily lives, their jobs, the kids. Andrea, with her incessant flirtations, her quick, sexy wit, and her ability and will to go from zero to sixty and back again at any time, all the time, made the non-sex they'd been having for months feel like the longest love-making session Miranda had ever engaged in. And it made her want to claw at the walls, she was so sexually frustrated.

Until Andrea decided that it was time, out of nowhere at all.

She managed to surprise Miranda in that, after months of waiting, the editor had expected a picture-perfect first time, with romance and candles and dinner and slow, gentle, passionate love. With planning.

She was fairly certain Andrea had not planned—at least, not too far ahead—to take her on the chess table in her home library on a bleary autumn afternoon, with the door unlocked and the girls fully capable of coming in at any time, even if they hadn't deemed to set foot near a book outside of school in ages.

Miranda wasn't sure how she'd ended up perched on the chess table, with expensive, hand-carved chess pieces littering the hardwood floor around them. But no matter, because the board felt pleasantly cool against her bare bottom as she watched Andrea kneel before her, the brunette's ample breasts hanging out of her blouse where Miranda had unthinkingly ripped the buttons off. Errantly, she took in the simple nude bra encasing them—front clasp, she noted, though she did not have the mental acuity at the moment to reach down to do anything about it. She was far too preoccupied with not toppling the table when a pink tongue darted out to brush her clit, causing her to arch uncontrollably.

That was the only teasing Miranda was getting, apparently—if you didn't count the months leading up to this momentous event—because the next thing she knew, that tongue had plunged into her hot, aching core, doing sinfully wonderful things to inflame her swollen folds. It only took three plunges and a delicate brush of Andrea's nose against her clit for her to grab the brunette's head with both hands and jerk wildly, a loud moan of the brunette's name filling the room around them. It was more than she'd fantasized about—so much more, so much better.

And it was all the better when, before she'd even had a chance to catch her breath, Andrea suddenly climbed onto the tiny table with her, somehow managing to keep them steady as she straddled one of Miranda's thighs and ground down. The heat that coated Miranda's thigh even as her inner walls continued to flutter and spasm around nothing was enough for her to come a second time, Andrea tumbling over the precipice with her on a strangled gasp.

Miranda recovered quicker the second time, and she had the presence of mind to wedge her hand between Andrea's slick heat and her own thigh, entering the brunette with three fingers and no preamble. She would wonder, later, at how easy it had been to engage in sex with a woman for the first time, at how, surprisingly, she'd felt no trepidation in that moment. But, those thoughts would come later. Now, she could only match Andrea's rough rhythm, still mostly caused by the uncontrolled jerks of her orgasm.

"Cu—Curl your fingers," Andrea commanded breathlessly.

Miranda was all too happy to oblige, and she knew she had the angle right when Andrea immediately came again, her thighs locking down so hard around Miranda's hand that the editor could only observe her ecstasy in awe.

They kissed sloppily as they came back down, Andrea slumping into Miranda contentedly.

When they did finally part, Andrea offered a satisfied grin—one Miranda returned wholeheartedly—and hopped off the table, padding over to the library bathroom in the far corner and pulling a blouse out of the chiffonier at the little bathroom entry. "I think I finally understand the point of this thing," she said, presumably eying the mirror on the dresser.

Miranda chuckled and padded over too, unfazed in her half-nude state, "Well, I certainly didn't put it there for post-coital clean-up, but, if it works…"

Andrea laughed, pulling a pair of black slacks out for Miranda. "I hate to cover your gleaming beauty up, but, knowing your kids, their spidey senses are already tingling, and we're just lucky they haven't already walked in screaming about being scarred for life."

They grinned at each other as they put themselves back together, all while Miranda planned their next rendezvous—hopefully it would involve a locked door and ample time behind it.