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In 1890’s Boston there was a society of mature, married women who met monthly to discuss books, played music, read poetry, including their own works. The original gathering was eight women, all in their forties and fifties; all with family wealth and all highly educated. Eventually they called themselves Sappho’s Sisters.

They were a mutual admiration society, and they had one other thing in common. Their businessmen husbands had no time for them. No time to fulfill the needs these mature women had.

It was Mrs. Abigail Andress who subtly suggested to Mrs. Gladys Wortham that they arrange a private session. Mrs. Wortham was not innocent in all of this. She’d recently read a poem she’d written to the society which had everyone’s knickers damp.

Reading between the lines, Mrs. Wortham’s poem featured two women and unrequited love.

Mrs. Andress invited Mrs. Wortham to her home while her husband was at work, and her maids had the day off.

She read a series of sonnets. In the language of the day, they were “bawdy.” They were bawdy in a female-to-female way.

The two women had been sitting on a settee. By the time Mrs. Andress read the third sonnet, Mrs. Wortham was leaning against her. “Mrs. Wortham, I’m not one for unrequited love.”

“Me neither.”

By the fourth sonnet, as Mrs. Andress read, Mrs. Wortham untied the bodice on Mrs. Andress’ dress and was caressing her breasts, paying particular attention to Mrs. Andress’ nipples.

In a few minutes, the book of sonnets was put aside and Mrs. Wortham’s tongue was fully engaged with Mrs. Andress’ nipples. First the left, then the right. “Gladys, don’t you think it’s only right that you allow me the pleasure of your bosoms?”

Soon, both women had the top of their dresses at waist level and their hands and mouths were busy. This was a first for both. Not that their husbands had not done them like this, but for both women it had been years since their husbands paid any attention to them, and their husbands’ touch was nothing like what Mrs. Andress and Mrs. Wortham were doing to each other. Of course, it was the first time either of them had become intimate with a woman.

Other than their husbands, they’d never been intimate with a man either.

On this particular day, that’s as far as they went, but they promised each other they’d see each other soon. Left unsaid was that they both expected to go farther.

Two weeks later when Mrs. Wortham arrived, Mrs. Andress wasn’t dressed as a proper lady would if she was receiving a guest. She was wearing a dressing gown with nothing underneath. It was very risqué for the times. “Mrs. Wortham, last time . . .”

“Yes, I know Mrs. Andress, it was marvelous.”

“What I was going to say was that perhaps we might be more comfortable in my boudoir. Mr. Andress has not crossed that threshold in a dog’s age.”

“I was hoping that’s what you had in mind. And just so you know, Mr. Wortham has not been familiar with my boudoir in almost a decade.”

What Mrs. Wortham did not have in mind was that Mrs. Andress removed her dressing gown as they made their way to her boudoir. “Mrs. Wortham, given the circumstances I think you should call me Abigail.”

“Abigail, you are lovely. Please call me Gladys.”

“Gladys, if you were to disrobe, I’m sure I’d call you Gladys, my

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