About Sisterland by Martina Devlin Page A

It’s a performance in so far as it’s not reality. In the sense of a mental wall between you and the meet. Even though both of you engage in the mating, it won’t be an authentic encounter. There’s no meaningful communication between you. He’s just another part of the ritual. A prop, if you like. You do see that, don’t you?”
    “Yes, mother.”
    “Excellent. The setting is undeniably extravagant,” the Mating Mother allowed her eyes to roam about her kingdom, an amused look on her face, “but it serves an additional function. It helps to rouse certain atavistic urges necessary to enable mating. Speaking of which, you must have some of our mead.”
    She clapped her hands. At once, a page carrying a tray approached, and proffered a baroque chalice with two handles to Constance.
    “Drink,” commanded the tiny woman.
    The chalice hung heavy between her hands. “I’m not thirsty.”
    “Drink. It’s to help with what comes later.”
    She sipped. The liquid stroked her throat, and she felt its warmth trickle through her body.
    “Drink it all.” The mother was observing her.
    Costance emptied the chalice. It was as if liquid velvet was slipping along her insides. The mead seemed to pool in the area above her thighs, causing her muscles to relax. How soothing it was. But the sensation intensified, and released something else in her. A craving – for what, she didn’t know.
    “Divine, isn’t it? The first time is always the best.”
    Constance ran her forefinger inside the chalice, and licked a drop of liquid from it. “I don’t mean to be greedy. But do you suppose I could have some more?”
    The Mating Mother giggled, a high-pitched sound. “One helping is all it takes to prepare you for mating. You can have wine now, if you wish, while the mating urge swells.”
    She clapped her hands again, and another attendant advanced with a glass goblet, taking away the chalice. Constance was reluctant to see it go.
    “And now, relax. Mingle if you wish, have something to eat.”
    As she spoke, the Mating Mother was steering Constance towards the table. Someone put an empty plate in her hand, but she was too distracted by the sights and sounds to eat.
    “Not hungry? Choose a gown instead,” suggested the Mating Mother.
    “May I ask you a question, mother?”
    “I’m sure you have all sorts of questions, since it’s your first time.”
    “It’s about the keys you carry. Why?”
    She jangled the ring at her waist. “All part of the Gothic castle fantasy.”
    “Whose fantasy?”
    “Why, yours. You sisters deemed suitable for mating. We researched your daydreams – a sizeable proportion of you have a fancy for castle life. You young sisters latched onto it during an entscreen series about architecture through the ages, repeated for several seasons due to popular demand. Ridiculously impractical, of course. But we thought, why not? It’s our way of thanking you for playing your part in populating Sisterland. These keys are inefficient compared with the modern alternative. Still, they do what’s intended: they keep the meets where we want them till needed for mating. Excuse me now, I must run through my list. I need to pick out a suitable specimen for you. Don’t forget to exchange your leggings for a dress. It helps to get you in the mood. And a dress is easier – when you’re on the mating floor.”
    Constance expected to shudder, but nothing happened. Instead, she realised that the warmth between her legs had spread to the pit of her stomach. She joined the queue for clothes, and examined the room while she waited. There was something that troubled her about her surroundings, although she couldn’t identify it. Perhaps it was the excess. So much abundance was beyond her experience.
    When her turn came, the attendant at the chest ran a practised eye over her.
    “Either of these should be the right length.” In one hand, the page held out a dress with a stand-up collar. Its raw silk khaki skirt split