“Greg? Do you have the… things?”
“Sure, baby, right in my pocket.” Greg Carneson, basketball player, drummer, and communications major, patted his hip pocket with a knowing chuckle. “I wasn’t going to forget. I mean, how could I? With you writin’ it down and everything. That was a nice letter, babe. No one ever wrote me nothin’ like that before.” He grinned and shifted his knapsack onto one shoulder. “I wish we had a nicer place to go, though.”
Robin laughed nervously. People passing them raised their heads to follow the sound and saw a really cute couple. Greg was tall, with raggedly cut blond hair and a tight T-shirt that displayed his team number. Robin always looked like she stepped out of a soap commercial, her face bright and slightly pointy, her burnt mahogany hair swinging free around her shoulders in soft curls. Neither one would ever be picked out as a beauty, but they were young and healthy and seemingly happy, and that made up for all their minor imperfections. They complemented each other, tall and slight, massive and elfin, fair and dark. Even their eyes―Greg’s an uncomplicated bright blue and Robin’s a deep amber-brown―were as different as possible.
“We’ll just have to make do,” Robin replied, eyeing her boyfriend’s pocket.
Oh no, was her real thought. I don’t believe it. He just brought condoms, the idiot! What the hell did he think I was writing about?
As she followed him to the parking lot, she tried to remember everything she had written about in that oh-so-hard-to-write letter. I was as clear as I could get, she thought desperately. What do I have to do, scream it out? Serves me right for going out with a jock. She bit her lip, trying to figure out what to do. Damn it! I shouldn’t have to do all this! Doesn’t he get it?
They had been dating for about two months. They had met in the gym, where they had been eyeing the same karate class. In the end, he didn’t have time to take it, but Robin enrolled. And since she was in the gym so much anyway, she came to watch him shoot baskets and drill with the coach. Soon, they were going for lunch together, and then, wham, they were dating.
And of course, everyone knows what eventually happens when you date someone. What Greg was absolutely oblivious to was the fact that Robin had never gotten to that “eventuality” before. Nor, apparently, after all of her careful hints and coaching, had he gotten around to understanding her more specific desires.
A terrible, nervous weight settled in her stomach. Oh God, why am I doing this? was the thought that rustled through her consciousness as she followed Greg silently to the car, smiled blankly when he sang along with a love song on the radio, and then nodded when he pulled into a parking space near the off campus frat house where his friend was going to let him borrow his bedroom.
In the end, all that Greg had brought was the condom in his pocket. No scarves, nothing to bind her or to blindfold her, or anything. And if he’d seen any of the movies she had suggested he rent and watch or bring with him, his style certainly didn’t show it.
Because the minute he closed the door behind him, he was all over her. His big hands encircled her body in a rush, and he kissed her hard and long, the way they kissed after at least twenty minutes of warm-up stroking, nibbling and licking. As he slid his fingers up inside her sweater, his sole concession to romance was whispering “Oh, babe, I’ve wanted this forever.” Followed immediately by, “But we gotta get outta here by eight.”
Robin tried to think of what she was doing as submitting to his desires. She allowed him to lead her to the bed, passively standing and turning for him as he pulled her clothing open, up, down, off. She closed her eyes to his kisses, to his glee as he fingered and then gently kneaded her breasts, but it just didn’t work. Her disappointment over his lack of attention to her careful hints was so overwhelming, and his eagerness was so clean-cut and so achingly stereotypical!
His own body was as handsome as his face, a strong chest and beautiful long legs. And her first sight of an erect male organ wasn’t disappointing; it was about the size she had expected, and Greg was fresh from showering after practice. She reached out to touch it, and he fairly purred.
Her imagination switched on, and she heard his purr change to a growl. “Do you like it, baby? Tell me you like it, slut. Tell me how much you want to kiss it. Get down there and make me believe that you love this cock. ’Cause I’m gonna slam it right down your throat, baby, and you’re gonna take it. You’re gonna take this cock any way I give it to you, aren’t you?”
Instead, in cold reality, he quickly guided her backwards to the bed and practically fell on top of her. He shifted to find a good position, trying not to lean an elbow on her, kissing her when he could, trying to keep at least one hand on her tits. And then, he remembered the rubber in his pocket and had to go back to get it, leaving her lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling. She looked over to one side of the room, where the frat boy had pinned up about a dozen overlapping beer posters, all featuring big-chested girls in skimpy bikinis, running around at the beach, their hands full of dark, sweaty bottles. She looked back down at her own body, with her small breasts and her short legs, and felt a sudden wave of inadequacy.
By the time Greg got back, fumbled around in his idea of foreplay for a little while longer and then heaved himself up to put the condom on, she found herself wishing that the experience would be as painful as some of her romance novels suggested it was; instead, it felt a little like a lightning-fast cramp.
She then tried to imagine that he was someone else. Her very distant and cold Italian teacher, for example. Or maybe, if she squeezed her eyes really tight, she could believe that he was a pirate, a dashing serial villain, holding her maiden’s body in his rough, churlish hands, breathing the scent of rum into her face, growling curses and taunts.
Yes, that was it! Or, maybe, when Greg was done, he would leap off of her, pull a pair of handcuffs out of his knapsack, and snap them on her while she lay back in an exhausted swoon. Then, with a leer, he would tell her that the price for the room was her body―and that all the boys in the house would be by to sample her charms. And they would come, first to ogle, and then to paw at her, and then to finally thrust their way into her body, again and again…Yes… yes….
But before she could work that fantasy into a proper orgasm, he was done, his body heavy and sweaty over hers, his breath as stale as any pirate’s, a wet, limp bag of latex dripping across her thigh and onto the musty sheets.
And to make matters so much worse, he nuzzled her throat gently, whispered, “Oh, baby, baby, that was great! Was it good for you, too?”
* * * *
“And it took every ounce of strength I had not to laugh in his face,” Robin remembered, her own face finally showing her amusement. “I went to bed that night thinking that if I couldn’t get this all-American jock to tie me up and spank me, then I wasn’t going to get anywhere. It was such a letdown!”
“It was better than what many people have,” Chris commented. “You did choose him, and he did not harm you.”
Robin blushed, but nodded. “I know. But I still feel like I really messed that up. I should have waited… I should have been clearer about what I needed. I mean, I wrote these little coy phrases in this love letter, about wanting to be swept away, and be made powerless―but I never really said, ‘Hey, Greg, I want you to tie me up and pretend you’re a pirate, OK?’” When Chris didn’t respond right away, she leaned forward a little and continued. “If I had waited, I might have been able to give it to someone―maybe to Maria, or Troy. It should have been special. And I threw it away.”
“Having mediocre sex is hardly something to mourn several years later,” Chris said.
“It’s just that now, with this chance to really live it, I feel like I made this incredible mistake. Wouldn’t I be more… valuable if I were still a virgin?”
“Certainly not. An oddity, perhaps, but not especially valued. Experience is what counts, Robin, and you should know that. You’re allowing your fear and anxiety to distract you. You’re over-compensating. You don’t have to do that with me.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” She looked genuinely ashamed. “I’m really very nervous. I talk a lot when I get nervous.”
“I can see that. And you’ll speak a lot more before we’re through. Just keep in mind that I’m not interested in hearing excuses or explanations. By the end of our time together, I want to know all about your past experiences and dreams and how you felt about them.”
“All of them? My entire history?”
Chris Parker nodded. “As much as is relevant. I’ll let you know when you’re telling me something I don’t need to know.”
Robin glanced up and looked out the window. The late evening darkness was cool, enveloping. I could still walk out now, she thought, catching the shadow of her reflection in the glass. I could just tell him that I must have been mistaken, insane, I have a job to do. I have to go to Italy in two months. I can leave and just go on like I was. I was happy. I am happy. I can find someone new.
But if I leave, I’ll never know. Never know if I was really ready for this. If I could have been….
Robin turned back to Chris and lowered her head. “I’ve always been strong,” she said, her tone a sharp contrast to her words. “I did what I wanted to, and never let someone run my life. And I can’t remember a time when I didn’t want to be a slave.”
“Good,” Chris said smoothly. He rose, and with a speed she could have never suspected, pulled her up off the couch by the front of her jacket. She gasped at his strength, and rose to her toes, her eyes just barely above his. His fist was tight against her throat, his body terrifyingly close.
“Maybe I can make you into one, girl,” he said softly. “What do you have to say to that?”
Robin gasped in another breath. Oh God! Oh, I want this! What do I say? What does he want me to say?
“That was a question!” he barked. “When I ask you a question, I expect an immediate, honest reply!”
“Yes! I mean, thank you, sir, yes, I want you to make me a slave!” Robin gasped again, her heart pounding, and her throat pressing against Chris’s knuckles.
He let her go, and she fell back onto her heels, but kept herself erect. She tried to control the urge to pant; her breath returned in short gasps.
Robin took her jacket off immediately and cursed her trembling fingers. She laid it on the couch and tried to be graceful as she unbuttoned the silk blouse. She was glad she had decided to wear the garter belt and stockings rig instead of pantyhose, but Chris wasn’t even watching as she took her skirt off. He had gone into the adjoining bedroom without a word.
Robin looked down. He hadn’t said strip to your lingerie. So she unclipped the expensive stockings and rolled them off, and then wiggled out of everything else. Almost as an afterthought, she unclipped the gold necklace and dropped it and her watch and earrings on top of her clothing.
Now she was as naked as the day she had entered this world. She drew herself up into a standing posture that seemed appropriate, with her hands behind her back, and then fretted about whether she should kneel. He didn’t tell me to, she reminded herself.
He kept her waiting for what seemed to be a long time. She jumped a little when she heard his voice in the bedroom, but it was clear that he wasn’t talking to her. She could hear pauses, and the sound of his light laughter. He had to be on the phone.
I wonder who he called. Maybe he’s calling someone else to come and… look at me. Or maybe to try me out. Oh, get a grip, Robin, you should be over those fantasies! It’s just a phone call. He’ll be back in a minute. A slight chill built in her upper arms and spread across her shoulders, raising goosebumps. As the first shiver ran through her, a tightness settled around her nipples and drew them achingly up.
This is only a test, she thought, trying to calm herself. I am being good. I am being patient.
I am patience.
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