Whitechapel Whispers

The tour ended at midnight.

But Isata stayed.

"I'm researching for a novel," the Sierra Leonean author explained. "I have more questions."

Chidinma should have directed her to office hours. But something about those thick curves in the Victorian costume Isata wore for "atmosphere" made her say: "Coffee?"

"I'd love some."

The Whitechapel flat was small but cozy.

Isata's questions started historical and became personal.

"What drew you to this period?"

"The darkness. The passion. People living intensely because life was short."

"Do you live intensely, Professor?"

"Chidinma. And... I try."

"Show me."

The kiss happened somewhere between coffee and dawn.

Isata pushed her against the wall, thick body pressing into hers.

"I've been wanting this since your first words on the tour," Isata confessed.

"You hide it well."

"I'm a writer. We're good at secrets."

"Then let me give you something worth writing about."

Chidinma led her to the bedroom and undressed them both.

Two thick bodies finding each other. Curves meeting curves. Softness against softness.

"You're exquisite," Isata breathed.

"Less poetry. More action."

Isata obliged.

She wrote notes in her head as they made love.

The way Chidinma gasped. The way thick thighs felt wrapped around her head. The taste—salt and sweetness mixed.

"Are you composing?" Chidinma laughed between moans.

"You're very inspiring."

"Then inspire yourself harder."

The novel that came out a year later was a bestseller.

Victorian passion. Sapphic desire. Critics praised the "raw authenticity."

"How did you research so well?" interviewers asked.

Isata smiled. "I had an excellent consultant."

In Whitechapel, that consultant was waiting for her.

Their arrangement had become permanent.

"My muse," Isata called her.

"Your everything," Chidinma corrected.

And the whispers of Whitechapel gained a new legend.