The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica (8 page)

Whenever I handed back graded papers, I reminded the students to see me during office hours if they had questions about my critique. A number of them did, some just angling for
a better grade, some genuinely interested in improving their writing. However, since Sloane consistently earned the highest marks in the class, I was surprised to find her waiting to see me during
my office hours early one evening. She sat across the desk from me, on the edge of her seat, and handed me her paper from the previous week. I skimmed it quickly, as though to refresh my memory
– although I had come often enough to those words that I could hardly forget them – then looked up. “Tell me what you want.”

Perhaps I imagined it, but it seemed as though she blushed a little. She lowered her eyes to the desk. “Please tell me what you meant about remembering the reader’s
purpose.”

I read over my words, then laid the paper on the desk and leaned back in my chair. “Why do people read?” I asked.

She hesitated. “To learn . . . to go places they . . . to experience . . .” her voice trailed off. She was embarrassed by the inadequacy of her answer.

“Why do people read erotica?”

Her eyes met mine and a small smile played at the corner of her lips. “To . . .” She tried to gauge how far she could go with a full professor.

“Say it,” I encouraged her.

“To get off,” she said, and I could tell she was trying not to show how turned on she was by saying those words aloud.

I nodded. “Sometimes, it seems like you’re a little ashamed of your readers – writing as though you want them to believe that you believe they have some intellectual purpose
for reading erotica, writing as though you don’t know what their hands are doing while they read your words.”

She held her breath. “I know.”

“Then you know something very powerful. You know what your reader wants. You can give it . . .” I waited for the words to sink in “. . . or not. But either way, you need to
understand how power works.”

The last paper of the semester was due the last day of class. I had given the students free rein to pick any era, any topic, any format – but reminded them that the paper
would count for half the final grade. When the class ended, I stayed in the classroom, talking with students – and although Sloane stayed too, she hung back from the crowd as though waiting.
Finally, she was the only one left, handing her paper to me, but not letting go of it until our fingers had brushed together under the pages. The sheaf of paper was thick, far thicker than a
1,000-word paper would be. Before I could ask her why, she said, “I graduate the day after tomorrow.”

“Congratulations.”

She went on as though she hadn’t heard me. “But I’ll be on campus through the summer. I’ve got an internship on this study that just got funded.”

“Tell me what the study is about.”

She waved impatiently, “It’s over in the Speech Department. Something about diagnosing aphasia in pre-schoolers. I’m really just babysitting.” She looked down at the
floor, and spoke hesitantly. “But what I wanted to say is that I’ll be here all summer, and if you want . . .”

The classroom door opened and the departmental secretary stuck her head in. “Sorry to interrupt, you’ve got a call from IT. Something about your security code.” Then she just
stood there until I realized she intended to wait and walk back to the office with me.

“Thank you,” Sloane said to me. “I wish I could have taken more from you.” And with that, she was gone. I walked with our secretary back to the office, and spent the next
half hour on the phone with IT, straightening out a problem with my laptop, getting wet again each time I imagined what Sloane had been about to offer me.

At home, I stacked the papers on my desk, determined to critique them all at one sitting, turn in final grades in the morning, and get on with my summer.

The stories were all good, and the more pleased I was with the quality of the work, the more I looked forward to reading Sloane’s paper which waited for me at the bottom of the pile.

By the time I settled into bed that night with my self-congratulatory whisky, Sloane’s paper, and a red pen, I was tired, my eyes dry and my hand cramped from writing. Still, I
didn’t for a moment consider putting off reading her words until the next day. She was to be my reward.

The work was titled
Please
. . . and subtitled “A Play”. She had excelled at the short story format all semester, so I was a bit surprised at the change in medium. However,
another of my students had written a screenplay, and several had written poetry for their final assignments. I turned to the first page. Written carefully in the centre – in what I assumed
must be Sloane’s handwriting – were these words:

“Just as cave paintings should be seen, plays should be performed – not read. I promise you that I know my role.”

The next page began with the word “
CHARACTERS
” printed in bold face, and underneath that, these words:

On the next page, the words “ACT I” were printed in bold face. The rest of the pages were blank.

The next morning, I left the critiqued papers with the department secretary – each paper sealed inside an envelope – and turned in my students’ final grades.
I was mostly packed, but finished a few last minute errands, locked up my apartment, and drove to the lake.

The lake house had been in my family for three generations, coming to me after the death of my parents. My grandfather had built the house and, even though it was meant only as a summer getaway,
he designed it to withstand the storms that blew off the lake all winter. It still gave me a sense of strength.

I aired out the house, tended to the immediate chores, and fell asleep exhausted.

Graduation was the next morning. Sitting on the porch, looking out over the lake while I drank my first cup of coffee, I imagined the cap and gown parade, the incessant clicking of cameras, the
faces of proud parents. I knew the ceremony would be over by noon, Sloane would no doubt have a celebratory lunch with her family, then drive the hour to the lake. In the instructions I had written
on her paper, I told her to arrive no later than 4.

She was a few minutes early, on edge because she had sped the whole way out of fear of being late. I opened the front door and stood leaning against the frame, watching her
pull a bag from the trunk and lock her car. She didn’t realize I was watching until she started up the porch steps, then gasped when she saw me.

“I’m sorry,” she said automatically, “you scared me.” Then blushed when I only smiled at her nervousness.

I held out my hand and led her inside. When I had shut the door behind us, I took the bag from her, and told her to go to the bedroom upstairs, at the back of the house. She started to say
something, but then turned and climbed the stairs, looking back at me over her shoulder for the first few steps.

The sauvignon blanc was so cold that it frosted the inside of my wine glass.

She was in the back bedroom, sitting at the foot of the bed, arms crossed as if to protect her from the cold, even though the room was warm. I lifted my glass to her lips and let her take a sip,
while I tucked a few stray locks of hair behind her ear. I rested my fingers lightly against her neck then bent to kiss a drop of wine from her bottom lip. Her eyes were wide and bright with fear,
desire, it didn’t matter which. I resisted the urge to tell her so soon how well she was doing.

I crossed the room and made myself comfortable, sitting in the window seat so that the slanting sunlight blinded her when she looked toward me.

“Undress for me.”

She hesitated. She could not see the smile that briefly crossed my lips. I was glad we were going to get past any reluctance early on.

“I won’t ask again,” I said, speaking more slowly.

She lowered her eyes and unbuttoned her blouse, then shrugged out of it and let it drop to the floor. She was wearing a white silk camisole, her nipples outlined clearly against the fabric, and
I knew she had worn this specifically for giving me the pleasure of watching her take it off. She moved slowly, the silk shimmering as she lifted the camisole over her head, and let it drop to the
floor as well. She shook her head to rearrange her tousled hair, then reached behind her for the zipper of her skirt.

“Not that.”

She stopped. I took a slow sip of wine, my eyes fixed on her body. Watching me for confirmation, she reached behind and took off the half-bra that had been proffering up her breasts to me so
wantonly. All defiance gone, her cheeks were red with the first blush of shame, and her eyes were on the floor.

I took another sip of wine, then set the glass down. “Turn around and kneel on the edge of the bed.”

She did as I told her, teetering a bit to keep her balance on the deep, yielding mattress. I came up behind her and ran my hands across her belly, and then her breasts. My fingers were cold from
the wine glass, but that wasn’t the reason she shivered at my touch. She leaned back, her head resting on my shoulder.

“What was the name of the last woman who fucked you?”

“What?” She seemed genuinely surprised by the question.

My hands trailed from her breasts, over her hips, and slowly up her back to her shoulders, increasing the pressure until I bent her forward. She braced herself on the mattress with her
hands.

“The name of the last woman who fucked you,” I said, in a tone that made clear she would pay later for making me repeat myself.

“Sylvia.”

I bent over her, tangling my fingers in her hair, making my hands into fists that pulled hard and held tight. “So ’Sylvia’ is going to be your safety word. Say it and
I’ll stop.” I leaned in close to her ear and whispered, “But then you go back to Sylvia.”

She nodded and I stood up behind her. “Feet on the floor, elbows on the bed,” I said evenly, then turned away, confident that she would do as she was told. I went back to the window
seat, which concealed a lid, opening to a large cubbyhole beneath.

I knew that she was curious. I had seen her looking around when I first came into the room, which was empty except for the bed – a large four-poster sitting high off the ground, affording
no cover for anything to be hidden beneath. Other than that, there was nothing. No furniture, no art hung on the walls, no carpet over the hardwood floors – simply the bed, which faced two
windows and a door leading out onto the captain’s walk. Because of the heat, I had opened the heavy outside door, and from time to time, a breeze knocked the lighter screen door gently
against the frame. Long, sheer, white curtains billowed around the windows.

I knew she had imagined I would take her in a dungeon of some sort, and I enjoyed her unease as she wondered what else she might have been wrong about.

I pulled out a riding crop – black, the whip made of dark purple leather, the thick handle of latex ridged to ensure a good grip – or a hard fuck.

I crossed the room to her. She had her feet on the floor, elbows on the bed. I held the riding crop so she could see it out of the corner of her eye. “Spread your legs wider.”

She did, stretching them as far apart as her tight skirt would allow. I trailed my fingers lightly over the fabric as it followed the perfect curve of her ass. The first lash with the crop was
hard, the sound like a firecracker in the still afternoon. She cried out, more from surprise than pain, and balled her hands into fists. I could feel the tension, her every muscle taut with the
desire to flee. But she stayed. The next few lashes were lighter, just a sting on her ass, then I surprised her with faster, harder lashes, alternating from one ass cheek to the other. Her
breathing changed, her gasps following the rhythm of the whip. When I stopped, she wiped away a tear with the back of her hand.

“Pull up your skirt.”

She stayed bent over the bed but reached behind her with both hands and pulled up the skirt, bunching it around her waist. I smiled at her choice of a black thong, made mostly of lace, and so
delicate that it begged to be torn. I ran the riding crop up between her legs and followed the thin string of the thong between her ass cheeks. I caught one string of the thong with the end of the
whip and twisted, then tugged it. She understood and reached back with both hands to push the thong down. When she had pushed it just below her ass, I slapped her hand lightly with the whip to stop
her. Her skin was already pink from the earlier lashes, but I spent a few minutes slowly whipping her bare ass until it was bright red, the thong around her thighs acting not as a restraint, merely
as a reminder that she was not to move away from the pain.

Without any warning, I thrust a finger into her cunt. She was wet, as I knew she would be, but wetter than even I had imagined so soon into her submission. She whispered, “Please . .
.”

“Are you still a virgin?”

She tried to laugh but it came out more as a sob. “No.”

“But has anyone fucked you?” I asked quietly.

Her whole body froze, her “yes” barely a whisper.

“Are you sure?” I asked, letting her feel the thick riding crop handle parting the lips of her pussy so that she knew I wouldn’t ask again before I fucked her. Her
“yes” sounded even less convincing the second time. Slowly, I dragged my wet fingertips from her cunt up to her asshole. I let my fingers rest there a moment, enjoying the sensation of
her sphincter muscles spasming in anticipation of pain.

“No,” she whispered, and I could tell she was begging me not to ask.

“Has anyone fucked you up the ass?”

She just shook her head. I stood her up then, and told her to remove the rest of her clothes except her heels. I opened the window seat lid and pulled out everything I needed.