by Jean Roberta
“Too bad there’s no sex in those old books you teach.” My friend Woody was trying to provoke me. It was her way of flirting.
I had taught a dreaded, required composition class at the technical school where she taught Industrial Arts until I landed the job I really wanted, teaching English lit at the university. Woody knew as much about literature as I knew about carpentry, but we always found something to talk about over coffee.
“There is,” I told her. “You just have to look for it.” We were alone in my office.
“You got a favorite scene?” Her blue eyes sparkled.
Woody’s short chestnut-brown hair stood up at the back in a kind of hair erection. Her wiry arms, so useful for so many activities, looked like sculptures. Considering that I was slim and she was muscular, she could easily lift me off the floor, though she hadn’t done it yet.
She was the kind of butch I could never resist, even though hard experience had taught me that some friendships should never be taken to another level.
I walked right into her trap. “There’s a scene in the novel I’m teaching now. It’s Victorian. The heroine works for a dashing rogue who tells her to meet him in the evening, but she’s worn out from farm work and uh –.”
I took a deep breath. “She falls asleep in the woods, and he finds her there and he does his thing.” I could feel sweat popping up on my skin.
Woody looked amused. “He fucks her in her sleep?” She stroked my cheek, and I didn’t stop her.
“Yep. It’s not really described, but it’s a turning-point in the plot. She was a virgin before, and when she wakes up, she’s ‘ruined’ as they called it then. It’s so intense. It changes her life.”
Woody laughed. “You wanta be ravished, fair maiden?” She pulled me into her arms. “You never had it with a woman before?”
“Not with you.” That was a kind of virginity. “And from what I’ve heard, you’re quite a rogue.”
Woody pressed her lips to mine and slipped her hot tongue between my teeth. I couldn’t hold back a moan. I jumped when she pressed a strong hand between my legs.
“Someone wants her cherry popped.” Woody looked me in the eyes, and ran a hand through my long blonde hair, making my scalp tingle. “I know the time and place. We need to go out to the old farmhouse on my grandpa’s property, and spend the night there. On Halloween.”
I was skeptical. “Where would we sleep? Is the house falling apart?”
“Naw, it’s completely renovated, but it still has character. Everyone in my family uses it as a summer cottage. Wouldn’t you like to spend a night there with me, Tess?”
I wasn’t sure how she planned to act out my fantasy. “You mean you’re going to–?”
“Watch you when you can’t watch me back,” she promised. “Take advantage of you when you’re defenseless. Make you mine. Change your life, I hope.”
I was intrigued by the seducer I had unleashed, but I wanted to know the details. “Do you really expect me to fall asleep while you’re with me?”
“Sure. Didn’t you tell me how you get after too much wine? So we’ll drink. Do you have a frilly nightgown?”
“Yes, but –.”
“That’s what you’ll wear,” she ordered. “I’ll pick you up at eight and we’ll drive out there. Bring a change of clothes for the morning. Don’t touch yourself before then. I want you pure.” She kissed me goodbye. “Later, my pretty,” she smirked.
I had a packed duffel bag when she came to my apartment, and off we went, down the highway.
The house loomed up from the broad prairie where weeds now flourished in place of wheat. It had two stories, an attic, and a wide front porch, all made of weathered wood. Somehow it looked both welcoming and sinister.
Woody brought me into a front room furnished in chintz upholstery, with framed, sepia-toned photos on the walls. I was grateful for electric light. “Go change,” she told me. “It’s time for you to get ready for bed.”
In an upstairs bedroom, I took off all my clothes, and put on my ankle-length cotton nightgown that floated over my bare skin. Entering the front room like a tour guide in period dress, I hoped to make an impression. I pulled Woody up from the chesterfield and wrapped my arms around her.
This wasn’t the script. She pushed me away, raised my gown in the back, and slapped my butt. “Not now, brazen hussy. Behave yourself.”
She brought a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a corkscrew from the kitchen, and told me the rules. “I’m letting you stay up late and drink wine so you can learn how to behave in company. If you can’t control yourself, I’ll take away your grownup privileges.”
Woody’s glass was hardly touched as she kept refilling mine. I squeezed my legs together as she held my hand without touching me anywhere else.
We talked about her classes and my classes. I pulled her hand to one of my trembling breasts, wanting to her to feel the hard nipple.
“That’s it.” She was firm. “You can’t behave decently, so you’re going straight to bed. To sleep. And you have to keep your hands where I can see them.” At her command, I led the way to the bedroom I had claimed. Walking behind me, she pulled up my nightgown and gave me a brisk spank. I squealed, so she gave me two more and told me to keep going.
Woody pulled down the bed covers on a high, springy bed. She didn’t have to tell me to get in, and to lie on my back. “You need to sleep, little one.” She stroked my forehead. The musk from her armpits mixed with the smell of my own arousal.
Silence and darkness. Softness beneath me. Exhaustion from a full day of dealing with students. I hadn’t thought I could do it, but I felt myself sinking into dreamland.
A weary man, climbing into bed to claim a hard-won reward. Weight pressing me into the mattress. Hard arms, hard legs, hard cock filling my mouth like a gag, making it impossible to scream. Hands spreading my thighs apart, preparing to plant the seed.
I swam into consciousness, and felt Woody’s pubic bone pressing into my cleft in rhythm, calling out my hunger. She was holding my arms down.
The face leering into mine seemed to have a beard, but it faded into shadow. My seducer was giving me a smug, lascivious look.
“What are you doing?” I whispered, in character. My nightgown was bunched above my waist.
“Deflowering you.” The voice wasn’t completely familiar. A hand slid over my startled belly, and two strong fingers plunged into my wet cunt.
“Oh!” I gasped. “How could you?” How could she be herself and also someone else?
The fingers worked up an irresistible rhythm. “You had it coming, wench. Kiss me and tell me you like it.”
My womanhood was well-opened, and the squishy sound of three fingers was a soundtrack. I could only moan, and my climax was an underground explosion.
I owed the truth to anyone who might be listening. “I love it, you scoundrel.”
Her mouth met mine in a long, soulful kiss. She used her other hand to squeeze my nipples, to get them ready for a hard suck and a gentle nibble.
I became so ruined (and by a dyke at that) that I could never go back to the way I was. She even threatened to have her initials tattooed on my ass, and I considered wearing her brand. I completed my own corruption by crouching between her legs and tasting her wild nectar.
In the moment, I didn’t feel any shame over leaving myself open in a bed that wasn’t mine, in a house full of memories. I wanted a connection that didn’t seem possible between casual friends united only by a shared work history.
That night, I really did lose some of my innocence, the part I didn’t know I still had. I could hardly blame Woody for directing my fantasy, or for refusing to think about where our separate futures would lead us.
In a different era, my deflowering would have borne fruit, and I would have given birth to a child who would have grown into an independent adult as I faded into old age. These changes would be no one’s fault.
Woody, you rake. I haven’t seen you for years, but now I know how you marked my life.
Sooner or later, we all lose our cherries to an old rogue called time.
Jean Roberta lives on the Canadian prairies. She has taught English in the local university for over 25 years, and now teaches creative writing there. Her diverse fiction has appeared in many print anthologies, an out-of-print novel, two out-of-print story collections, and in two available collections. She co-edited Heiresses of Russ, an annual anthology of the year’s best lesbian speculative fiction. The opinion pieces she wrote for a monthly column, Sex Is All Metaphors, are available as an e-book by that title (www.eroticanthology.com). She now blogs here: www.ohgetagrip.blogspot.com every Friday, and here: www.erotica-readers.blogspot.com on the 26th of each month.
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