A Girl Named E

1.

You can call me E, because that's how it all began. Mark placed the little purple pill between my lips and told me what it was. I had smoked weed and tried cocaine once, but never anything exotic like Ecstasy. My heart started to race, and I felt butterflies the size of dragons in my stomach. I wasn't sure if I liked this at all.

"Spit it out into my hand if you don't want to," Mark said. "I'm not trying to trip you or force you. I just wanted you to feel how brilliant it is."

He was sweet as always, and I loved when he said brilliant in that British way. To me it was the most beautiful English. At least after I had meet Mark. I took the pill out and looked at it. It was still dry. I moistened my lips. "I won't go crazy, will I?"

"I hope not," he laughed. "No, you'll be fine. We're just doing it here in our cozy apartment with all our nice, cozy things... and Miss Kenobi, your old tatty teddy bear." I looked around in the small one-room apartment. It was all we could afford, and I loved the place and had since we moved in. He knew how to talk me into things.

"Only if you think it could be fun."

"Fun is what this is all about!"

An hour later, I had to admit that it was great. We had danced to some old-school hip-hop that Mark liked until the neighbor knocked on the door and asked us if we could keep it down. She had to work early. We apologized, and she said it was okay, just not on a Wednesday. So Mark found some ambient music on the computer and made the screen go wild with strange psychedelic patterns. I think it took three seconds for us to start making out. He unbuttoned my jeans with his right hand while doing wonderful things with his tongue. I wanted so bad to suck his cock, but he held me onto the bed, his fingers rotating slowly over my clit. It was crazy! I felt so open and relaxed that when he started whispering, I answered truthfully to everything he said.

I don't know when he began asking about my fantasies, but it was so incredibly hot that I confessed things I hadn't told anyone before, like my fetish for feet and the fact that I had been nude sunbathing while our old neighbor in the bungalow next to ours in Berkeley was spying on me. Then he asked, "Have you ever had fantasies about other men?"

"Yes," I said, unable to stop myself.

"Tell me about it."

I couldn't get a word out. The orgasm ran through me like a cheetah on the savanna. I was so relaxed and yet so excited.

"Sounds like you've thought about this a fair bit." He giggled as his hand movements changed from circles to sort of pinching my clit.

"I'll be back in a tick," he said and went to the computer where he stood for a while trying to put on some new music. When he succeed it was really perfect. Slow, sexy, and not too loud for my over-sensitive senses. He went off to the toilet, and I lay there looking at the changing patterns, deciding that this would not be the last time I would take Ecstasy.

He came back and took up right where he had stopped. "Tell me about it." He started touching me again and I spread my legs wide. "Who is it? Who would you like to fuck?"

Mark had pushed my sexual border many times since we hooked up, but I knew that he would never dare ask me such a thing in any other situation. Now, with the drugs in our bodies, it just felt so natural. At the time I was not afraid that he would be sorry or anything, not in the state we were both in, but I did get very shy. Very, very shy. When I told him that I couldn't tell him he whispered to me and were touching me in a way so I eventually muttered, "it's an older man." And just by saying that I instantly had a small orgasm. It was perverse and intimate and nice at the same time. I had never tried anything like it.

"Go on then. Is it someone real or what? Or is it just you who fancy older men in general?"

"It is Allen Thomas." I could hear him gasp. He was as exited as I was and that just made it so much more horny and wonderful.

"So you would like your Irish art teacher to..."

"Yes, I will like him to put his cock inside me," I whispered, "I would like it. Really like it."

"Yes... you would give your body to him. He would put his sperm inside you," Mark said and I could hear our hearts beating with the same wild beat. "He would make you drink his sperm." I said nothing, I only kissed Mark gently in the forehead while orgasms shook my body like hiccups. "He would also put his sperm in your ass."

"Yes, yes. I would like that," I said.

*

I woke up the next morning all alone. Mark had left a note. He had gone to his music theory class. The memory of the previous evening returned slowly, and I became more and more embarrassed. But I was also excited about it. I decided that I would let Mark do anything to me, let him make me do anything he liked or say anything he wanted me to say. I felt in that moment in love with him in a way these last five months of being in love hadn't shown me. I wanted, I knew that, to be together with him until I died. He would be the man of my life. I stumbled up naked -- the pajamas were the first thing he had me abandon because he'd told me that the vagina needed air while you were sleeping -- and looked at myself in the mirror. My light, brown skin was as smooth as I had ever seen it. My small, firm breasts with the large, almost black areolas looked so delicious, my waist so slim, and my ass so big and round that I -- maybe because the drug was still in my body -- started to masturbate right there in front of the mirror, enjoying the beauty I saw reflected back at me.

*

And when Mark came home, he was shy, and we didn't talk about it at all. Neither of us mentioned it for the next three weeks.

2.

It was Friday afternoon when Allen Thomas, my painting teacher (whom I had a slight crush on), asked me if he could talk to me. "I'm in a right predicament here, and I need you to do me a favor. I know that you are supposed to finish the sketches before Monday, but could you please spare me an hour or so? If things aren't finished by Monday, I will, as your teacher, don't be hard on ya."

I told him that of course I would, and he just told me to follow him. We left the workshops and went out into the streets, and he took me to the small park with the beautiful, old trees where I used to eat my lunch. He stopped at a bench overlooking the lake and sat down without further ado.

"It's so beautiful here," I said to get him talking.

He laughed. "Maybe it is. I never really liked this city. But my wife needs to be here. She's an East Coaster. She couldn't write anywhere else, and her books are what put the caviar on the table." He smiled at me. "I like the place you come from more. The Bay Area. San Francisco, Northern California."

Then there was silence for a while. He seemed unbothered by the stillness. I looked at him as he sat there taking in the view with narrowed eyes, the same look he had when contemplating a painting. I felt a bit hot for him again -- actually, a lot -- because suddenly my infatuation with him blended with the whispered confessions of the night Mark and I took Ecstasy. His hair and beard were red with gray streaks. His large body made me feel small and vulnerable, something I knew from experience had me aroused. He was so intelligent and knowing, and he liked my paintings. I was, I knew, his favorite this semester. He had talked seriously to me about becoming an artist, about suffering the hardships and the lack of money to live an authentic life as a creator of art. To live a free life. I was stirred just looking at him, and because of the night of E, I didn't feel I was betraying Mark. Not that I was feeling anything like authentic or free. Not that I wasn't confused. But somehow that evening had made me feel much more confident with Mark. I trusted him as I trusted myself.

"I have..." Allen Thomas suddenly said, "been retrieving some photos." He sighed. "Some very beautiful photos." He paused and looked again out over the lake. "I would be lying if I told you that I have not enjoyed them, but as your teacher and a man of authority, they do pose a bit of a problem for me. They've been sent to me by your boyfriend, Mark Sutton -- the young British lad who, according to his composing teacher Alice Appelbaum, is quite the wonder child. Much like yourself. A talent."

I felt cold inside. Pictures.

"Here. Take a look." Allen handed me his phone. I looked at the image, then the next and the next again. It was me naked -- sleeping, bathing, smiling, giving him a finger... spreading my legs while we were fooling around a couple of months ago. My breathing was suddenly in a mess. My heart sounded like a bell in my ears. "There is also a film if you go a few times to the right," Allen said calmly.

There was no sound on the phone. I turned it up a little only to hear Mark whisper to me about Allen Thomas' semen. I turned it down again. My face burned. I had never felt so ashamed in my life. I started shaking and felt his hand on my neck. This calmed me down a bit, and his voice, matter of fact and friendly at the same time, made me close my eyes and level my breathing. I hoped that somehow he would solve this.

"As I said I have enjoyed this more than I probably should. Mark has sent these to me via an app called Signal -- it is encrypted so it is between me and him. But my predicament is that I have no idea why he has sent it or if you have any knowledge of them being sent in the first place. I take from your reaction that you did not."

I only shook my head, not knowing what to say.

"Can you please enlighten me about what this is about? I am your teacher, and even though you are an adult, you are a very young adult. Your talent as a painter, your originality, your hard work not least are something that I would encourage no matter how you looked, no matter if you were the most un-charming creature on Earth. But you are the exact opposite. You are a beauty, and the most charming person I have meet in a long time. So I have been very... very careful to put professional distance between us as I admire your hard and unsentimental paintings too much to jeopardize our relationship with something like this. And now... because of your enigmatic boyfriend who have not answered any of the questions I have sent him. I want to fuck you like a madman."

I was shocked by this confession. He wanted to fuck me! Somehow I knew that he had not asked for this. That this was on Mark, and partly also on myself, because I was such a cheap, little slut. But underneath this he was not roaming himself in. He was not letting me go. He wanted me. I had to hit back at him as hard as I could. So I said the words.

"And how is your wife feeling about that?"

"Well, she insisted on sucking my cock while I watched that video where you whisper that you want my sperm all over your body. Nothing excites her more than me being excited over another woman. We have done it several times since your boyfriend sent the video to me. Listen, you know I asked you for a favor. I would like to invite you and Mark to dinner tomorrow evening. I would like to be part of your discussion as I have been involuntarily involved in this. To be clear, this is not a demand, but a favor you would do for me, and for which I would be very grateful."

3.

As soon as Mark saw my face that evening, he started crying. Big, muscular and overly sensitive. My emotions were a storm of diverging states, but the wind of fury was what predominately sounded in my ears.

"Please, I don't want to lose you," he whimpered. "I don't want to lose you."

I didn't know what to say, so I just started beating him with my small fists. He was too big for me to do any harm, and in reality, I didn't want to harm him. I just felt betrayed and confused, and at the same time, I felt more erotically inflamed than I had ever felt. He seemed to welcome my feeble punches, so I stopped. "Why?" was all I could say.

"I thought I did it for you. To let you... to make your fantasy come true. I know now that I only did it for myself, but I was... confused... excited. I can't get it out of my head. I didn't ask you. I know. I was too shy. Too selfish. I am sorry. I don't want to lose you. I love you."

I just stared at him. My mind was in turmoil. I knew right there and then that I simply loved him, and I even felt sorry for him crying. But he was an asshole. Everything felt strange.

"Allen Thomas has invited us for dinner tomorrow evening," I said. "Do you think we should go?"

*

Mark didn't say much that Saturday afternoon. I asked him what I should wear. I did it as a sort of test, deciding to follow his advice no matter what, but before we left, I had to ask him if I wasn't looking too sexy, considering that we were going to a dinner party with my teacher. He didn't look me in the eyes when he whispered, "I want you to look sexy for him. I'm sorry."

That gave me something to think about on the subway.

*

It was a beautiful home. Elisabeth Thomas was a writer of international acclaim. I wasn't sure what she wrote -- novels or poetry most likely. She had the means and taste for something marvelous, and that was exactly what we encountered as we entered through a large oak door adorned with strange carvings of angels and devils. It was new, but crafted by an artist with a vivid imagination and an appreciation for medieval European art. It felt good to know such things; I had studied hard this year.

I realized that I had completely forgotten all about Elisabeth Thomas, but she was the first to speak when she and Allen greeted us in the hall. She gently touched my arm with one hand while the other discreetly brushed against my hips. "More beautiful in real life! What wonderful hair, what wonderful eyes." Elisabeth herself was stunning, even in her fifties. Contrary to almost anyone in this day and age, she had no artificial enhancements. And she looked better for it. She had a thick mane of dark brown hair mixed with gray, no coloring. Her breasts were large and full, revealing small wrinkles in her cleavage. Yet they were inviting and sexy, and she showcased them in a simple black dress with an indecent neckline.

"Come, let me show you the house." She pulled me along with her while the realization that she had seen the video and the pictures hit me. She was far too sweet and charming for me to really let it sink in, though. I was breathless; she was wonderful -- educated, charming, sexy, and also dangerous. I could feel it in my stomach and in my pussy.

*

The dinner was exquisite. They had a girl serving the food -- an enchanting girl who made clever jokes and looked stunning with her short blonde hair. I found myself feeling jealous when she bantered with Allen while serving dessert. There was no mention of the video or photographs. Some time was spent questioning Mark about his compositions and latest efforts -- the string quartet and the electronic pieces. He looked handsome in his dark blue silk shirt and black blazer, but it still seemed a bit juvenile compared to the immaculate suit and tie of Allen Thomas. I loved the company, the cultured conversation, and the evening. I hated the reason for us being there. I hated that video. I hated Mark, and I hated myself.

But then things took an unexpected turn. Elisabeth rose and told us that now that we had finished dinner, we would go to her writing room, where she would tell us all a story.

4.

Elisabeth Thomas's writing room was not what I had expected. It was very spartan, with a table holding a desktop computer and another table with paper and pencils. There was only one high, slender window, over which she had a drape that she could roll down by pressing a button by the door. "I have light-sensitive eyes," she explained. "This is my nun's cell, where I cleanse myself of all worldly ambition and all worldly inhibitions to be able to write."

In the middle of the room, three soft chairs were arranged to face each other around what at first appeared to be a low, round table, but upon closer inspection was soft; upholstered in the same fabric as the chairs. "This is also the room where I have my meetings with my coven of witches," she explained. "There are three of us, as you can see. Choose a chair and make yourself comfortable. Now it's time for you to listen to a story."

We sat down. The chairs were very comfortable. I looked at Mark and smiled. He looked nervous and jumpy, and I shared those feelings. What was going to happen now? I glanced at Allen, who sat back relaxed, holding a glass of whiskey. "Don't worry, love. This is what it's like to visit a couple of eccentric artists." He smiled reassuringly, but I wasn't really reassured.

We sat there facing each other -- Mark, Allen, and I -- while Elisabeth began circling the three chairs in a slow, even stride. It felt like some sort of ritual. Then she started singing -- only a few notes, changing in a hiccupy manner. She had a beautiful voice, and I could see that Mark enjoyed it. He was a composer, after all; he loved beautiful sounds. But I felt jealous and then a bit silly. Why shouldn't he enjoy her voice?

Then she began to speak.

"Once in the deep time that we humans only recall as a teenager remembers his childhood, there was a people. This people were as humans have always been and still are -- living through their emotions, living through the hunt and things found. Sometimes the people starved because the hunt was going poorly, and nothing could be found in the woods or off the beaches. Other times, the people thrived because the hunting animals offered themselves to the hunt, and the berries in the woods and the oysters off the beaches were plentiful."

As she told this story, Elisabeth strode slowly around us, and I noticed that every time she passed the door, her hand brushed the panel, dimming the lights slightly with each round. Her hands would lightly graze us as she walked past.

"In this people, there was a young hunter. He was strangely handsome and exceptionally lucky in the hunt. He could sing and dance. He was funny. He received more love and admiration than any other among the people without it getting to his head. Everyone loved him, and he got to choose among all the girls the one he wanted as his soulmate and lover.

The girl he choose was as splendid as he was. She could find things where others saw nothing; she could carve meat, tan hides, and cook. Of course, she was perfect in appearance, took care of the weak, and, first and foremost, she could think and plan.

Eventually, the two of them agreed to undergo the mysterious ritual of bonding together -- to become man and wife."

The light was now very low. I could see Mark, who sat tense in his chair, and Allen, who took the last sip of his drink.

"The young hunter and his woman went to the tent on the outskirts of the camp, where the old chieftain lived with his three wives. He no longer commanded the tribe. That job was handled by his eldest wife, a crone of incredible age. But he was the spiritual leader of the tribe, and one had to visit him to forge the bond between man and woman. How that was done, no one would tell them. Both men and women looked away when they asked and told them the mystery should not be revealed.

When they entered the tent, they were overwhelmed by the intense fragrance of the place. It smelled of smoke and animals, but there was another strong scent in the room -- not unpleasant, but intense and unsettling. In the middle of the tent, the chieftain sat on a low wooden stool. The top of his head was bald like the moon, while waves of white hair cascaded down his back almost to his waist. He was naked, and behind him stood his three wives, all crones, dressed in exquisitely sewn black leather. None of them said a word.

It was now completely dark in the room. I could see absolutely nothing. But I noticed that Elisabeth's voice now came from behind Mark's chair. She had stopped walking around.