Page 38 of Seduction Under the Southern Stars
The boys at the school, including Linc, Henry, Fraser, and Joel, joked about masturbation—or wanking or jerking off, as they so charmingly called it—enough to make me think it was quite normal, for guys anyway. And Zoe and Hallie, bless them, have both referred to their vibrators, usually after a glass of wine, suggesting they don’t think there’s anything wrong with a woman pleasuring herself.
But for me, sex is tied up with feelings of guilt, anxiety, fear, and dread. I’ve talked about it to my therapist a few times, and she’s reassured me it’s common for women who’ve been assaulted. She’s also told me it’s perfectly natural to masturbate and explore what feels pleasurable for yourself, and that it would be good for me to do it, so I can start to associate sex with pleasure rather than pain. But I don’t do it often. I tend to tell myself that—like a dog who keeps humping your leg—I need some exercise, and go for a long walk.
Now, though, I feel a tug of resentment. Zoe said she and her last boyfriend once spent the whole week in bed, barely rising to get food from the fridge. She implied it was a magical, fun, pleasurable act. That’s how the movies portray it, too. And for the first time, I wonder what it must be like to share yourself with someone like that.
As I stroke my fingers through my folds, then circle the pad of my forefinger over my clit, I make myself think of Linc, and what it would be like to have sex with him.
In the movies, men are often rough, and seem to enjoy controlling the action. They lift the girl up, throw her on the bed, and are inside her in seconds, and the women always seem to enjoy it. Is it true that some women like that? I don’t understand why. It takes time for me to arouse myself, and I know what happens if you have sex when you’re not ready. I’m worried about not being able to vocalize what I want or need, and about being out of control. Of a man doing something I don’t like.
If it was Linc, though, I could tell him, couldn’t I? I’ve always been able to talk to him. I remember being fourteen, not long before he left, and having period pain, and telling him one afternoon when he asked why I didn’t want to go out on a walk with him. He made me a hot water bottle and a bacon sandwich—very much a guy’s way of taking care of someone—but I adored him for it.
I can’t imagine him being rough, anyway. He’s always seemed so gentle. I picture him keeping his eyes on mine as he takes off my clothes slowly. Then lowering his head and kissing me, not just touching his lips to mine, but using his tongue, the way I’ve seen in the movies. Lying me on the bed, and kissing down my body, over my breasts. I touch my nipples as I imagine him covering each with his mouth and stroking the sensitive skin with his tongue. And I think of him sliding his fingers down into me, slowly, gently, taking the time to arouse me.
My fingers move faster, and the ache deep inside me grows. It’s a wonderful fantasy, and I can almost imagine that I wouldn’t be scared when it came to the moment where he moved on top of me and pressed inside me…
I’ve never looked at porn, but I think of the sex scenes I’ve seen in movies and TV series, where the women are enjoying it as much as the guys, and imagine myself as one of those actors, and Linc as the male lead. I picture us moving together, enjoying each other’s bodies, taking pleasure from one another. I want to be wanted. I’d like him to feel that way about me. To like me enough to want to make love with me. And it might be nice to take him all the way. To know I’ve given him such pleasure that he’s reached the ultimate goal. To have him come inside me.
Oh yeah, that’s doing the trick… My teeth tug at my bottom lip as my internal muscles start to tense, and then I bite hard to stop myself crying out as the orgasm sweeps over me. Ooh, mmm… yesssss… that feels good… strong, hard pulses that leave me gasping with deep breaths as I try to draw air into my lungs.
I lie back, my face hot at the memory of my stolen, private fantasy. Ah, jeez, now I’m going to have to look him in the eye with the knowledge of what I’ve been thinking about. Oh well, too late now.
I wonder if he’s ever done this while he thinks about me?
I slide down into the water again, feeling wicked, but the thought won’t leave my mind. Does he do this? I’m being stupid—of course he does. I think all men do. They’re quite open about it, and they don’t seem to feel guilty about doing it. I imagine him taking himself in hand and picturing me while he arouses himself. Giving long, firm strokes, head tipped back, until he… Hmm, best to stop there I think, or I’ll need to start all over again.
Feeling more than a little sinful, I get out of the bath, dry myself, and get dressed in black trousers and, today, a pink shirt. I put my hair up in its usual bun, slick on a bit of makeup, then go out into the kitchen. I make myself some tea and toast and take it out onto our miniscule balcony. It’s only big enough for one chair and a tiny round table, but I like sitting out here in the mornings, when the air is still fresh, and I can hear the seagulls crying over the harbor.
It’s normally one of my most peaceful times. Today, though, my stomach gives a little flip as I take out my phone.
I leave it on the table for a moment and sip my tea. I know Dad will be up as he’s an early riser. He’ll have done the same as me—made himself tea and toast, and he’ll be in his office right now, opening his emails and planning out his day. Later, he’ll probably take a group of students out to the mountains for a few hours, and maybe he’ll even stay in one of the cabins overnight. He’s great at team building. There’s something about him that encourages even the most reticent students to open up.
Linc was like that. When he first arrived at Greenfield, fourteen and already gorgeous, with dark hair that flopped over one eye and an attractive, nervous energy, he was surly and angry, his green eyes flashing. He was sarcastic and resentful, and he hated that society thought him as a reprobate that needed ‘special’ tuition and care because of the behavior of his father. That first day, when I sat outside Dad’s office and offered Linc half of my Twix, I can remember the moment when Dad opened his door and came out. He saw the two of us sitting together, realized we’d shared the Twix, and gave a small smile as he came over.
“You must be Lincoln Green,” Dad said, holding out his hand.
Linc sat there sullenly and looked away.
Dad lowered his hand. “Would you like to come into my office?” he asked.
“No,” Linc said.
“All right,” Dad said easily, “we’ll talk here instead,” and he took one of the other chairs and turned it to face us, right there in the corridor. Linc looked at him as if he was crazy.
“My name is Atticus Bell,” Dad said, “and I’m a chaplain at Greenfield.”
“I’m not a Christian,” Linc said.
“That’s okay. I’m here to help everyone, and we don’t ever have to talk about religion if you don’t want to. My job is to look after students’ spiritual needs, and that’s not the same as religious needs. It means your spiritual wellbeing, as opposed to your physical wellbeing. Does that make sense?”
Linc shrugged.
“I’m a teacher and a therapist,” Dad continued. “Therapy is about you being able to talk about things that trouble you, or you’re concerned about, or whatever you want. I hold regular appointments, and I also run adventure therapy, where I take students out into the mountains to explore and camp outdoors. Is that something you think you might be interested in?”
“No,” Linc said.
“It’s good fun,” I told him. “I’ve been. I found the skeleton of a stoat.”
“I see you’ve met Elora,” Dad said with a smile. “She’s my daughter. She’s ten, and she’s around here a lot. She’s a maniac for chocolate, so it’s quite rare for her to share her Twix. Did you say thank you?”
