MY FIRST TWO TIMES
I'd been in love with Marcia for years. She was a wild Italian beauty with natural reddish-brown hair that she kept just past her shoulders, and dark eyes that were always shimmering. It was as if her face was designed by artists. Her body was equally amazing. She had a ticklingly cute crooked smile, and a sexy wink that bowled me over. She was the best-dressed woman at the school, and rarely wore the same expensive clothes twice. Her hair was done most every day. There was money in her family. Those short skirts made me crazy. And Marcia could sing and dance as well as any pop star.
Whenever I made a statement, complaint, or conjecture that I considered reasonably intelligent, she'd make a speed-of-light rebuttal, a response so brilliant it would leave me speechless. I'd never known anyone so bright. Marcia, it seemed, became exceedingly beautiful each passing day. Once, she approached my car looking utterly perfect, exactly the way I would have wanted her to look. I believe I fainted or passed out for the moment. I felt dizzy and euphoric. I regained my composure quickly, sat up straight in my seat, and Marcia seemed angry, but said nothing, just glared at me. It was clear that occasionally these antics annoyed her: my reflexive happy smiles and involuntarily climaxing when she spoke the right words a certain way. Perhaps it bothered her that I was female, and as a teacher at the school, she didn’t want any public display. She had a necessary closet to hide in. But just seeing her was special. I don't know how or why she liked me, too. Did I cause this, by coming on to her? Compared to "Miss Marcia," I felt like human garbage. What could she possibly see in me?
Sometimes she'd give me angry looks, as if I'd done something wrong. Because I was always doing bad things, I'd speed through my memory, searching for what it might have been. Then I'd realize that I hadn't done a damned thing, and I'd glare back at her as if to say, "What the hell did I do?" Most often this made her smile, and her hostile glance immediately dissolved. I later realized that this was a game, a sign that she favored me, a way of getting my attention. Further evidence that she liked me, I knew, were those heart-throbbing sexy winks, intended just for me. And Marcia always winked at me in front of people. She engaged in non-sexy winks all the time, and nobody ever noticed the difference. The fact that Marcia had feelings for me filled my spirit with gladness.
At a class party, I was wearing a pair of shorts with no underpants, and as I sat directly across from Marcia, she could see up my shorts, so I crossed my legs. There were dozens of people talking, and I cared nothing for their uninteresting conversation. I stared into Marcia's eyes. I moved my legs again, opening them, and said to her, “Wanna make the thing come?" I was sure no one would hear me, though the room became quieter at that moment. Marcia did not answer. But I continued to stare into her deep brown eyes, never blinking, and she gazed back into mine. I knew she could tell I loved her intensely. I bounced my leg a few times, and turned it to the side, so she could see straight up my shorts again. After a long pause, and my continued loving gaze, Marcia said, calmly, "Okay."
Soon, she rose from her chair, walked to the front of the room, and began dancing to the music playing. It was so hot it made my head swirl. The dance evolved, and would have led into a strip-tease. A few men hollered, "Whoo! …Whoo!" But Marcia didn’t start stripping. I bent forward and lowered my head, trying to come, as tacitly agreed. Then Marcia turned to the right and did two things; I wished I could remember what they were, but I was in a compromised state, so overwhelmed by Marcia's talented dancing and beauty, and generally unaware of my surroundings. I came hard, and everybody began clapping loudly. I was a bit confused. It was funny that my mother was in the crowd. I don’t think she had the slightest idea of what had just occurred.
The next day, the class went to the beach to collect seashells, and Marcia gave me one that resembled my lower external organ. She and I were always giving each other small gifts. I always loved the way she seized items or notes from my hand. She was not coy.
Early the following year, I entered the large classroom where Marcia was putting books away, and the teacher's aide, Judy, a perpetual nuisance and self-appointed obstacle, was nowhere around. Marcia and I were alone together. She appeared unwelcoming, at first. I was wearing a navy blue shirt with the number “69” on it, and a pair of CK jeans and black Gucci belt. I walked what seemed a considerable distance, closer and closer to the object of my affections. She sat down at a small child’s desk. I positioned myself in front of her, so that my crotch area was directly across from her face. Marcia moved away. Again, I stepped in front of her, the area between my legs in her face. I was in a predatory mood. I hadn’t come in that way; it just spontaneously happened. Each time Marcia retreated, or shifted her chair, I relentlessly put my body back in front of her, lining up my crotch with her face. It was evident that I was not going to stop this. Marcia exhaled, and started undoing my belt, and unsnapping and unzipping my pants. I was glad; I was trembling too much to do it myself, and I was excited. Then I became anxious, and turned to look at the door. Was it closed? I looked again, and yet again. “It’s closed! It’s closed!” Marcia shouted. I was still nervous about being caught. My pants fell easily to the floor. I never wore underpants. Marcia removed herself from the little chair, knelt down on both knees, and positioned herself beneath me. She began sucking and licking me down below. I felt her mouth move towards the right, when suddenly she pulled away and started coughing. She coughed and coughed. I was puzzled; my girl didn't smoke. She coughed some more, and finally said, “You’re not clean!” I hadn’t taken a shower that morning, or the morning before; I was so busy with work and single motherhood, I'd even slept in my clothes. I felt bad about this, though I'd always been told I had a honey-sweet pussy. “But I didn’t know we’d be doing this today,” I said, in an effort to defend myself. She didn’t respond. I had no choice but to turn away. It hadn't felt as good as I’d imagined, so I didn’t mind her stopping. Had my expectations been too high? Is it possible that Marcia wasn’t the best in the Universe? I doubted that. Still, I thought she was so cute when she coughed. I would never forget. It made me love her more. I hoped she’d consider doing it again sometime. But I believed Marcia had begun to think of me as a “skuzzy girl.” I would have to prove myself to her again.
Several weeks later, I found myself alone with Marcia in her office at the school. My son was in the care of another teacher, with some parents and other students. I was often bolder than I should be, and I told Marcia, "I'll close the door, and you sit on the desk." I grabbed her tightly around her upper body, and she resisted somewhat, so I loosened my hold. Then she said simply, "Okay... Okay." That was her word. I closed the door and she sat on the edge of her desk, after moving some papers out of the way. I told her that if anyone knocks on the door, "Nobody's here." I approached her and lowered my head so I could work my way up into her skirt. She and I pulled it up together, and lowered her stockings to the ankles. "Pull my hair," I said. She did, but so gently I had to tell her, "Harder," and she complied. I loved that. I made her wait at least thirty seconds, to make her more excited and eager. I wasn't worried about my performance in spite of scant experience; I trusted that my animal instincts would take over, and I'd know what to do. I knew what Marcia liked - she had hinted to me long ago, and being female, I knew that 99.9 percent of women loved it also. I saw that Marcia was already very wet. I went to work, using her lubricant with my tongue on that northernmost protrusion between her legs. She gasped at the outset. I continued in the most sensuous, artistic way I could. I reached into her blouse and bra and felt her breasts. They were soft yet firm, and warm, larger than my hands. She rubbed my back and shoulders with her hands and fingers, and played with my hair. I carried on, and Marcia moaned and mumbled unintelligibly. I guessed she came about five times. She always jerked back a bit when she orgasmed, and I loved her bursting in my face. Finally, she stopped holding my hair, and rested both hands on my temples. I stopped. She put her face close to mine, then pulled up her nylons. I stood, and kissed her on the lips and cheek, and she gave me one of her famous winks, and a smile - just for me. "Love ya, Rose," she said softly. My heart was light. We talked for several minutes, and I left to retrieve my son. She winked at me again as I exited the door. All the way out of the room, my eyes had been fixed on that beautiful woman. I knew this was something I’d dream about at night.
This was not the first time. It was my second. The first time I lost my "les virginity" was during a court appearance I had to make. I was the respondent. The referee, who represents the bench, was known as the worst of the lot of them. I’d been assured that the problem would be addressed, that she'd be spoken to regarding the way she handles herself in court. She was punitive, precipitous, and merciless, enjoyed her power, and routinely intimidated caseworkers, lawyers, and respondents alike. I have never seen her smile, and only on one occasion did she actually even look at me. 'Lucky I'm good looking,' I'd thought. It seemed that she could not refrain from glancing in my direction, again and again. I tried to maintain an innocent, hopeless expression on the face she liked. But later she scolded me and threatened me fiercely, most likely, I believed, in defiance of that fact that I appealed to her, that I'd affected her in some way. During the next court date, she announced that she wanted five minutes to speak with the respondent outside the courtroom. My lawyer gave consent, as she assured him that it was an irrelevant matter, not involving the current legal situation. We entered one of the empty conference rooms. She told me to disrobe. I was humiliated, but complied - I was afraid. She sat up on the table and pulled up her dress, and lowered her panties. “Do it right,” she said sharply. She added, "We're on the clock," and turned to look up at the wall. These were her only words to me. I was not at all turned on. I felt cold and unemotional. But I did my best to please her, though I felt sick in a queasy way. Because I was buck naked, I was shivering and shaking the entire time. I didn't think she came at all. She didn't become very slick either. It had been many hard minutes of putting forth my best effort, when she put a hand roughly on my shoulder, pinching it almost painfully, and said, "We're going. Time is up." I felt even more degraded, since now she was going to leave me. She began to rush back to the courtroom, and I re-dressed in a hurry, and struggled to keep up. Back in court, there was another ten minutes of discussion among the lawyers, after which time the referee did not grant me what I sought. My first thought was, "What a cunt!" I considered reporting her, but with a psychiatric history, and the referee being more or less respectable, whose word would they accept? Also, if I did say anything, she might make it far worse for me in court. I was devastated.
However, after weeks and weeks passed, my recollection of the scenario turned me on. It occurred to me that the woman derived enjoyment after all, by humiliating and intimidating me. Both Marcia and the referee had sat on a desk or table, my favorite place to have sex. There were most definitely similarities. But lots of obvious differences. I wished my first and second times were reversed. I wished I'd given my "virginity" to Marcia, instead of to that wicked, undeserving power freak. My virginity, which had been important to me, was snared by the wrong person.
Anyway, there’s a new woman I love, but she lives out of state, and she and I might never meet. She might never let me touch her anyway. Yet I obsess, and can't give up my hopes and feelings.
It might seem that I'm homosexual, but I am in fact bisexual, though I tend to prefer women at the current time. In the past, I engaged in every sexual activity that could possibly be done with men, including marriage and fidelity. After so long, men became uninteresting, and sometimes a woman infatuated me – like Marcia. The female population opened new avenues, new forms of excitement - though maybe in my middle age I've transformed into a homosexual. I've known that to happen. But I can't accept any largely overweight, ordinary stupid girl; only those that are intelligent and attractive, who make interesting conversation. Also, I find parts of a woman's anatomy repulsive. Anyway, the type of woman that appeals to me tends to be out of my league. I am a liability as a mentally ill junkie. That ends my story for today. I hope this material is not too risqué for AuthorsDen!
Recently I found the perfect woman - and one who felt the same. But I lost her. That story has yet to be written :(