Teaching Carol, Ch.1

It was dusk, nearly dark. A warm, late-September evening. Carol and I were sitting on top of a picnic table near the reservoir, she in the center, her feet on the bench, and I behind her with my legs on either side of her as I massaged her shoulders. We didn’t know each other that well, but there had been a slow flirtation going on and we had somehow decided to take a walk together and wound up here. She was small and dark—her last name was Spanish-sounding—and her petite figure looked very girlish in what seemed almost like a pre-teen’s white party dress, plus clunky sneakers and knee socks. She certainly didn’t appear to be a particularly sexual person; in fact she seemed rather shy and virginal, in manner as well as dress, and I believe she was, basically. When I made a slightly off-color joke she smiled and blushed, looked down, and said, “Jeez.” And yet there must have been some quality about her, some hint of submissiveness, because I just knew somehow she would let me do whatever I wanted.

As I massaged her shoulders I was telling her how much I liked touching her, and apologizing with humorous insincerity for my inability to keep my hands to myself. She accepted my apologies with laughing graciousness and did nothing to discourage me.

Even though it was fairly dark, there were other people not too far off so I pointed at the silhouette of some trees near the shore and said I wanted to go over there. She agreed and laughed a little nervously when I picked her up in my arms and began to carry her over to them. The back of her dress was hanging down where her knees were hooked over my arm, and I think we were both aware that the backs of her thighs were pressing against me there.

I’m sure she hadn’t been planning to get sexually involved with me. When I put her on her feet in the shelter of the trees and pulled her to me, she put her hands against my shoulders as if to push me away, and said, “Jonathan!” in a way that made me think her next word would be either “No!” or Stop!” But when I kissed her, she offered no resistance, opening her mouth to my insistent tongue, her hands now holding tightly to my shoulders. This was even more of a turn-on for me: ‘I shouldn’t do this, but I can’t resist’.

I wanted to see if it was true. I pressed her back against a tree and, without removing my mouth from hers, began fondling her left breast through the stiff, ruffled fabric of her dress.