Something strange happened to me. Something…ethereal, and it’s leading me into an insoluble dilemma.
Since my eighteenth birthday, I’ve pursued a sexual quest to recapture the events of that fateful day, when my body became consumed by an entity. A being with a perverse sexual desire. I call him, Marcel, my own dark angel. For better or worse, he lives within my body and he awakened my soul. Everything was fine…until I fell in love.
My name is Marcella, and this is my diary.
Be Warned: multiple partners, menage sex, f/f interaction
Mike (April 23, 2002)
I started skipping school with a couple of like-minded girls, Connie and Helena. We didn’t do it too often, only when the academic routine became too much. Connie’s older brother, suave, debonair Mike, with the Valentino looks and long black hair, was owner/manager of the local movie house. Some afternoons he’d let us in for a private showing of the latest R-rated film. Not exactly hot stuff, but for us it was exciting as we sat in the empty theater, smoking.
Helena was the daring one. Sometimes during an especially hot scene, she’d remove her blouse and bra and fondle herself. Connie and I would watch, our eyes darting from the screen to Helena’s boobs.
This happened only about once every five or six weeks, after the furor of our last episode of playing hooky died down. Sister Marie of the Holy Angels, the principle of our all-girls Catholic school, quickly saw through our ruse of the forged excuse notes. We were forced to spread out our excursions.
After the movie we’d gather in Mike’s office. Helena and I would take off our jackets, undo the buttons on our blouses, and give Mike a little show. He kept some booze in a file cabinet, and he’d allow each of us two drinks—no more. He didn’t want us stumbling down the street and get him in shit, so we were made to eat licorice to hide the whisky breath.
Helena, of course, went further. She’d completely remove her blouse and bra and tweak her nipples. I always noticed the bulge in Mike’s pants. I think Helena was a born cockteaser (I like to tease for only so long, and then I want the real thing). I think we all knew Mike preferred me, but the girls never mentioned it. From the corner of my eye, Mike would be watching me, even as Helena did her boob thing.
Then one day it happened. Connie was home with the flu and Helena had gone on a class trip. I can picture her on the bus, her skirt hiked up to mid-thigh, apparently without her knowledge, as she sat next to some fortunate—or unfortunate—boy. Anyway, I was alone in the theater with Mike. We watched Nine ˝ Weeks, an especially steamy flick. I’d dressed in a low-cleavage blouse, mini-skirt and heels. The outfit was a little more appealing than my school uniform, although as I discovered, the uniform had its own appeal to some guys.
Afterward, in the office, Mike was cool. He poured us drinks as he sat at his desk, while I got comfy on the sofa.
“Marcella, I’d like to ask you a favor.”
I looked at him expectantly, knowing exactly what he was going to say.
“I’d like to kiss you.”
Okay, why not? I nodded. Mike came over and sat beside me. Gently taking me in his arms, he planted on my lips the first real kiss I’d ever received. Not the fumbling pecks and groping of pimply teens, but a long, slow, penetrating kiss. I was shaken to the core. I quivered and he noticed. Quietly, he murmured, “What would you like to do?”
Marcel made me answer in a provocative voice unlike my own. “Take me out in your car.”
Mike grinned, then, maybe imagining what we could do in his car, and moments later, we were cruising at a leisurely pace down Main Street in his convertible.
It was an in-between day, kind of damp—it’s April, right?—but with a warm breeze. I’ve always found such weather to be unsettling. Looking back, I know my behavior seems strange, but I know it was Marcel controlling me. I felt like a marionette with my dark angel pulling the strings.
As we drove, I remembered the poem spindly Miss Cooch (her name was Gooch, but most of the students didn’t like her) taught us.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For his civility.
Miss Gooch said it was written by Emily Dickinson, a virgin recluse. Well, I too was a virgin—except for Marcel, that is—but not exactly a recluse.
Mike paid attention to his driving, with an occasional comforting smile in my direction. At no time did I feel in danger. We pulled off the road into a lane that seemed to darken with each passing breath. When he stopped, he covered his face with his hands, as if in prayer. I stared at him silently, wondering what he was thinking. Then he smiled the most glowing smile I’d ever seen, and it reached right into my soul. Above us, gnarly tree branches formed a cathedral ceiling, like a promise of protection, and I knew something magical was about to happen.
He didn’t say a word, just stared at me, eliciting little shivers of excitement coursing through my body, and then he stroked my hair, tentatively. Lovingly. He seemed to know what I was feeling and what I wanted, even though I wasn’t sure myself.
I moved closer to him, hiking my legs up onto the seat and curled up against him. Tenderly, he put his arms around my frame. I wanted him to master my body like he owned me.
Mike’s embrace felt like a blanket of desire, almost as if to take me into him, and I surrendered. Then and there, I was his world. Nothing and no one but me held his unwavering attention.
It really didn’t register that he was taking my clothes off. Only when I felt a slight chill did I realize I was naked. In her poem, Emily wrote:
The dews drew quivering and chill—
For only gossamer, my gown—
My tippet—only tulle—
I don’t know what a tippet is, but whatever it is, I didn’t have one. Not even a gossamer gown. Nothing between me and the late afternoon air. But the internal warmth far superseded the external. I’d never felt so warm, so protected.
While Mike seemed to remain cool, I was burning from within. He clearly knew what he was doing, and enjoyed teasing me with his deliberate strokes and gentle caresses. Every touch lit my body as if lightning struck me, and I struggled to breathe, growing more excited with his bold touch.
I should mention that Mike was unmarried. Maybe he never saw the necessity of marriage, and from what I knew of him, he’d never had a fiancé or even a steady girlfriend. But he did have a harem of about seven women, one for every day of the week, I guess, and most of them were married. And from all accounts, he was an accomplished cocksman.
I guess it’s why I felt so flattered that he paid me so much attention. I could feel that he liked me, and was attracted, but I wasn’t dumb enough to imagine he would ever devote his exclusive attention to me. Being in that moment, in the car, was good enough.
My skirt and blouse were removed. I wore only panties, a bra and heels. Mike made it apparent that he admired my body, staring at it with a hungry look in his eyes.