Holly Grandal had been my dream girl since I was in the fifth grade. She was the smartest girl in the class, and I was the smartest boy.
We used to be the last two standing in any of the class spelling bees or multiplication table contests. When the Iowa Test of Basic Skills was administered in the fifth through eighth grades, Holly and I had the two highest scores in our school each and every year. We took turns in first and second place, with her at the top in fifth and seventh grades, and me taking the crown in sixth and eighth grades.
Each time she beat me at anything, she'd raise an eyebrow and say with a superior smirk, "Catch me if you can!" It used to grate on my nerves to no end.
We competed fiercely, but down deep I carried a torch for her. When I had my first erection, it was while watching Holly at the swimming pool. When I had my first wet dream, she was lurking in my sleepy haze as I awoke to sticky sheets. When I thought about who would wind up on top, it was no longer in regard to results from the latest test or assignment.
But I kept my feelings to myself. I could not afford to lose my competitive edge by showing a weakness toward my primary competitor.
By high school, Holly was becoming the subject of other boys' wet dreams as well. She had grown a nice pair of boobs. Her boyish rear end became a shapely derriere. Her rather thick glasses were replaced with contact lenses, showing off her sparklingly intelligent blue eyes. She began to wear makeup and make an effort to do something more stylish with her thick raven-colored hair. And her braces were removed to reveal a killer smile.
She was beautiful, she was funny, and she was smart – all any guy could ever want. The key was getting her to want in return. Or so I thought.
The truth was that Holly was an ice princess. To my knowledge, no guys broke through her cool façade – or her hymen – during all of high school.
We crossed paths (and swords) frequently. We competed against each other in the same honors classes, matched wits at science fairs and math contests, wrote competing columns for the high school newspaper and vied for the same prizes in the school literary magazine. And each time that she emerged victorious, that eyebrow would go up, those lips would curl into a smirk, and those words would rain scorn down upon me: "Catch me if you can!"
My only intellectual endeavor without her was the chess club. I guess there were limits to her fraternization with the geeks.
We remained academic adversaries to the bitter end, at which time we shared a podium as co-valedictorians of our high school graduating class. And, true to form, at the end of her speech she turned to me in front of the entire auditorium full of people and said, "Catch me if you can, Derek!" It was all I could do to regain my composure and present a coherent co-valedictory address to the gathered crowd.
The next fall, I was off to Boston College on a National Merit Scholarship. Holly went to Harvard. For the two years that followed, I heard nothing more of her or from her, despite the fact that we were off at school in the same city.
In September of my junior year, I was in a sports bar watching the Red Sox on TV on a Friday night. They were in the middle of a heated pennant race. I had become a rabid fan, a member of Red Sox Nation.
"Howdy, stranger!" rang out a female voice across the bar. I looked down from the flat screen TV and saw a nice pair of not-so-flat boobs. There was plenty of cleavage showing from under a clingy floral print cotton top. I'd recognize those boobs anywhere.
I re-directed my attention to the boob-owner's lovely heart-shaped face, her raven-colored hair framing a pair of intelligent, sparkling blue eyes. Sure enough, it was Holly Grandal. She flashed me a killer smile.
"Derek! Iss – iss been too l-long!" she cooed with a slur, blowing me air kisses as if we were long-lost lovers. Her words carried the slur of an alcoholic stupor.
I looked her over as she weaved toward me. Her legs were lean and sexy, well-displayed beneath a short black wraparound linen skirt as she walked.
"Um ... Holly. Yeah, it's been a while," I replied as she approached my table.
I was uncomfortable. We had grown up together, but we were now strangers. Our common bond had been our competition, but after more than two years apart, there was virtually nothing to talk about. But, damn, did she look good.
"Here to watch the game?" I managed to ask.
What a weak attempt at small talk, I thought to myself. I may as well just drop my knuckles to the floor like a Neanderthal and ogle her breasts again. It would show just as much intellectual acumen as my feeble question.
"Nah, I'm here to fuckin' get DRUNK!" she chortled, "and after that, maybe to fuckin' get LAID!"
A tinge of pink began to color her cheeks as she stood over me. I couldn't help but notice her lovely pair of C-cups protruding toward my face. I tried to avert my eyes.
Moreover, I couldn't believe my ears. Holly Grandal, prim and proper little miss ice maiden, talking through expletives about going to a bar to get drunk and get laid. I shook my head roughly in disbelief.
"Well, why don't you have a seat and watch the game with me? The Sox are playing the Yankees. We can talk over old times..."
"Screw the fuckin' Yankees!" she exclaimed. "And how about les – les f'get ol' times and talk 'bout the fuckin' press – pres – present?" She swayed slightly as she spoke.
It was clear from her speech and her demeanor that she had already been bar-hopping that evening. What wasn't clear was why she would be out by herself in that condition. A vulnerable woman in the big city was an easy target for muggers, rapists or worse.
"Sure, Holly," I answered, rising to pull a chair out for her. "Let me buy you a drink. What're you havin'? Coffee?"
"Nah, gimme the fuckin' good stuff," she muttered, then erupted in a fit of giggles. For the first time in my recollection, I felt sorry for Holly Grandal.
The next time the waitress stopped by, I ordered us each a stiff drink. In a way, I was miffed that my drunken colleague was keeping me away from the ball game. But as the evening wore on, and I watched her across the table, I found myself getting hornier and hornier for my childhood flame, despite her liquefied condition.
Fueled by a little too much liquid courage myself, I boldly asked her why she was out looking to get laid.
"Aww, Derek – you're so fuckin' sweet to ask," she giggled. "You wanna fuckin' do me the honors?"
I'm sure I turned beet red. Not knowing whether to laugh it off or pursue it with vigor, I held the middle ground. "Is that what you want?" I queried casually.
"Lemme – lemme fuckin' tell you a fuckin' seek – a fuckin' secret, Derek baby," she purred.
I didn't recall Holly ever swearing in high school, let alone dropping the f-bomb every second word. Something was different about Holly. I guess the alcoholic stupor was the first indication that something was amiss.
"Sure, Holly – we're old friends. You can tell me anything. Your secret's safe with me."
Holly paused. A tear slowly dribbled out of her eye. Her chin began to quiver and her lips seemed to struggle to form the right words.
"I – I can – can fuckin' trust you, Derek?"
Despite our fierce rivalry in earlier years, I had never done anything to violate her trust. There had been no cheating to beat her, no stepping on her to accomplish my goals – just pure, simple, unadulterated, honest competition.
"Have I ever crossed you, Holly?" I asked sincerely.
She contemplated for a moment, her eyes still somewhat glazed. "Naw, you were always a fuckin' goody two-shoes. Just like me..." Her voice faded off, as did her gaze. I wasn't sure whether it was the alcohol or a distant memory.
"So – are you gonna tell me your secret?" I asked.
She still hesitated a moment longer. Then, sucking up her fortitude, she looked me in the eye. "I'm fuckin' lookin' to get laid 'cuz I've never fuckin' BEEN laid," she confessed.
You could have knocked me over with a feather. After all that braggadocio, she was a goddamn virgin! I'm sure my jaw dropped and my eyes bugged.
She saw my response and laughed quietly. For a moment, I didn't know whether to take her confession seriously. But then I decided she had no reason to joke about something like that. And she had indeed been an ice princess in high school.
"But, Holly – why in the HELL would you come to a SPORTS BAR looking to get laid for your FIRST TIME?"
She squinted at me and raised a superior eyebrow. "Why the hell NOT?" she asked. "Isn't a fuckin' sp – a fuckin' sports bar a place where fuckin' MEN like to – to fuckin' hang out?"
I shook my head, trying to convey an air of disgust. "Christ, Holly – you'd fuck a total STRANGER for your first time to get laid? Shouldn't it be with someone SPECIAL?"
She laughed again, this time an outright cackle. She laughed so hard that she nearly barfed. When she finally got it under control, she laid her forehead on the table to regain her composure.
When she finally looked up at me, she had another tear streaming down her cheek. "You were always such a fuckin' know-it-all, Derek. Some things never fuckin' change."
I nearly walked out right then and there. But there was something genuine about her tears. I wanted to know more.
I counted to ten before responding. "Okay, Holly. I'm sorry to judge so quickly – I DON'T fuckin' know it all. Pretend like I'm a totally blank slate. Draw me a picture."
"Shit," she replied caustically, still muddled by her inebriation.
I waited again, intent on not letting her get me riled. At least she had added a different expletive to her vocabulary. And she really did seem like she needed someone to talk to, someone to look after her.
"Look, Holly," I offered, "you're talking about losing your virginity to a total stranger. That's not the girl I knew in school. There's got to be a reason." I laid my hand on hers, entwining her fingers in mine.
She lowered her lashes, then looked up at me with a teardrop-moistened smile. "You fuckin' really do CARE," she replied softly. A light seemed to flicker in her eyes, beginning to dispel her alcoholic haze.
I gave her a sheepish grin and shrugged my shoulders. "I just don't want to see an old friend make a mistake she may regret for the rest of her life. But I haven't walked a mile in your shoes..."
"Here's the deal, Derek – and you have to SWEAR you'll never tell ANYBODY. Okay?"
"Okay – sure, Holly."
She looked into my eyes, and I could see her sobriety visibly returning. She released my hand. "Okay, Derek – it's like this. I was raised by very intelligent but very screwed-up parents."
"Nothing unusual about that last part," I laughed.
She didn't laugh in return. "Do you want to hear what I have to say, or not?" she chided.
I realized this was no time for feeble humor. "Sorry, Holly – go ahead."
"It's okay, Derek. I don't mean to be rude. I just really need to get this off my chest."
I resisted the immediate urge to look down at the part of her anatomy she had just named.
"I'm listening," I replied.
"My mom and dad always wanted the best for me. They pushed me in academics, in sports, in the fine arts. But they were – and still are – overbearing Catholics of the worst kind. Ever since I was entering puberty, they drilled into me the importance of saving my virginity until marriage."
I desperately wanted to drill something a little less spiritual into her. I'd been suffering from a massive erection for about an hour. If something needs to sink into you, let it be my cock, I telepathed silently. My close proximity to and frank discussion with this incredibly hot and intelligent woman – whom I'd lusted over for more than half of my life – was getting the best of me.
"So why didn't you just ignore your parents?" I prompted.
"That's the crazy part, Derek. They didn't just teach it to me. They scared the hell out of me with it," she explained.
"They didn't just talk about unwanted pregnancy, AIDS, venereal diseases and all that shit. Those are real enough, but you can protect against them."
"They taught me about something I can't protect against. About the danger to my mortal soul – that I can go to hell for deliberately consenting to sex outside of marriage."
"And you believe that?"
"I – I don't know, Derek. I truly believed it when I was younger. I started to question it toward the end of high school. I sure as hell – no pun intended – don't WANT it to be true, but even the possibility it's true scares me shitless."
"I'm no theologian," I said, "but I can't picture God as being ready to throw you into a fiery pit for something like that. After all, who gave you hormones?"
"If you're going where I think you are with this, Derek, there's a logical flaw..."
"Just hear me out, Holly. If God made us, and we have hormones, don't you suppose God expects us to act on the impulses those hormones give us?"
"Well, I'd like to think so – but that doesn't account for the logical flaw. We're supposed to be able to rise above our instincts. It's not like we have no say in the matter. The issue is not the act – it's the consent."
"I see..." I replied, though I really didn't see. That's why I was shocked almost out of my shoes at what she said next.
"Of course, if I was RAPED, then there'd be no consent, and I'd get the experience without the danger to my mortal soul."
"Holly – I'm shocked! Why in hell would you think in positive terms about rape?"
"Why in hell, indeed? Because I'm scared shitless about GOING to hell, but I've been THROUGH hell for years, with feelings that I can't bring myself to act upon."
"But Holly – women who get raped go through their own private hell. It's a TERRIBLE thing. They're scarred for life."
"That's why I'd want it to be someone who cared about me. Someone I trust..."
She simply wasn't making sense to me. "You're talking in oxymorons, Holly. Raped? By someone you TRUST? How can a RAPIST be worthy of TRUST?"
"I'm talking about someone who wants to release me from my torment by taking away my consent..." She reached across the table and squeezed my hand.
The light bulb in my alcohol-impaired brain was slowly beginning to flicker on. "Are you saying what I think you're saying, Holly?"
"That I'm wondering if you have the balls – and other equipment – to help me out? Or are you still too much of a goody two-shoes?"
I pondered my dilemma for only a moment. Then I made up my mind and grinned.
"There's only one pussy sitting at this table," I managed to retort. "Let's get the hell out of here."
Holly smiled and raised a knowing eyebrow in my direction. "Catch me if you can!" she taunted as she stood up and walked toward the door.
I paid the tab and grabbed my Bosox cap. I found her lingering by the front door, then followed her out onto the sidewalk. A nice, warm September breeze blew her cascading black hair across her face.
I hailed a cab on the street just outside the bar. "Take us wherever she tells you to go," I told the driver.
Holly gave him directions to her apartment. It was close to Harvard, not far from the bar. It took only a few minutes to weave our way through traffic, though it seemed like an eternity. Upon arrival, I paid the cabbie and sent him on his way with a hefty tip.
Her apartment building was a stately old red brick Victorian. "Are you sure you want to go through with this?" I asked her as we climbed the stairs to her apartment.
"Hell, no!" she exclaimed.
"Um ... oh. Okay," I replied meekly.
She sighed and shook her head. "You're such a fuckin' pussy," she answered gruffly, unlocking her apartment door and then opening it. "Don't you fuckin' understand the importance of non-consent in this whole fuckin' thing?" She flipped the lights on with the switch on the wall.
I decided it was time to play the role that she so desperately needed. I grabbed her by the wrists, pulled her inside, and slammed the door shut.
"Okay, Holly – time to stop playing the fuckin' cock-tease! I'm going to make you my little slut! You're going to be begging me for more before the night is through!"
Her eyes widened, a look of genuine horror replacing the friendly sparkle that had shone in them a short while before at the bar. "D – D – Derek ... I'm not sure I like you this way," she stuttered.
"I'm not sure I like being played for a fool, Holly. You deliberately got me all excited about taking your cherry, and now you're acting like you don't want to give it to me."
"But I DON'T want to give it to you, Derek. If you're going to have it, you're going to have to TAKE it."
"Careful what you ask for, little lady," I answered, releasing her wrists and grabbing her floral print top right at her cleavage. I ripped it open, pulled it off of her and threw it on the couch.
She flinched and let out a cry. As she backed away from me, her lacy white C-cup bra teased me visually with its frills. I grasped the front clasp while I held her legs immobile between my knees, to keep her from backing away further.
"Please – DON'T, Derek! Please STOP!"
"No way, Jose!" I said, unhooking the clasp and tossing her bra to the floor. The creamy flesh of her ample breasts was hot to the touch. And touch them I did.
Tears began to stream down her face. "No, Derek, DON'T," she sniffled, pushing weakly at my shoulders with her dainty hands.
"Holly, I'm going to suck your nipples, and there's nothing you can do to stop me," I declared.
"Not a thing," I replied with a smile. I leaned toward one beautiful breast and stuck my tongue toward her areole. I looked up before contact to see Holly's reaction.
Her eyes were no longer alcohol-hazed, but displayed a haze of another kind. I interpreted it as a sexual haze. Her tongue slipped absent-mindedly between her lips, silently urging me to lick her nipple. Or was she instead expressing anxiety?
I took the globe of her breast in both hands, kneading her flesh while I took her erect nipple in my mouth. I laved her areole with my tongue, gently caressing her engorged flesh with my lips.
I looked up again and saw that her eyes were closed in silent bliss. Or was it fear?
I moved to the other tit and performed the same service. My hand slowly worked its way up underneath her skirt.
She slapped at my hand. "Derek, no. You CAN'T DO THAT!"
My hand continued its upward trajectory. "I CAN and I WILL, Holly," I boasted. I reached the crotch of her panties and began to prod them with my fingers. I could feel her dampness through the cotton fabric.
"PLEASE DON'T, Derek," she begged, "I don't want you to touch me there!"
"It doesn't matter what you WANT, Holly – what matters is what you're going to GET!"
I crooked my index finger around the edge of the crotch of her panties and felt the moist warmth of her pussy. My finger probed and quickly penetrated her vaginal lips.
"NO, Derek, you CAN'T put your finger in there!" she shouted. She slapped at my arm.
I pulled my finger out of her cunt and ripped her panties along the seam. I tossed them to the floor.
"I'll do MORE than TOUCH you there!" I threatened.
I pulled her skirt over her slim hips and down to the floor. By now she was writhing away, so I grabbed her naked hips and pulled her toward me. I lifted her up off the floor and gazed at her body. She was stark naked other than her shoes. She stopped struggling momentarily, watching me watch her.
Her pubic mound was as naked as the day she was born. It was clean-shaven, though I had expected it to be forested with hair as black as the raven-hued locks on her head.
She could surely see the lust in my eyes as I raised her higher off the ground. This was my dream girl, the one I'd wanted since I'd been old enough to want. Could she see the emotions that ran deeper than lust?
I carried her to her bedroom, turning on a bedside lamp after I laid her on the bed. She attempted to break free, but I held her legs apart and leaned on them.
"I'm going to lick your pussy," I announced.
Her eyes once again seemed to betray a mixture of surprise and excitement.
"But Derek, you CAN'T. When a girl says NO, it means NO!"
I momentarily wondered whether I should stop. She was right in what she said – I just wasn't sure it was what she meant. In her warped world of mortal sins, she HAD to object in order for her non-consent to be legitimized.
But if she truly DID mean "no" – I could be up shit creek and facing a jail term if I carried through on the rape.
I decided to trust my instincts, and trust what Holly had said to me earlier. Surely the judge would understand my confusion from the mixed messages. Or not.
I moved my head between her knees and then gently kissed her inner thighs, first one leg and then the other. I worked my way up toward the juncture of her legs. She wriggled and made a show of trying to break free.
I was near enough to my target to smell her musky vaginal scent. She put her hands on my head as if to push me away. I grabbed her wrists and said, "Be still – you're going to LIKE this!"
"No, NO," she cried, "I won't like it at ALL! It's on YOUR head if you do this to me!"
I chose to ignore her protests. It was the neurosis speaking, I told myself.
I kissed all the way to her hairless cunt, then stuck out my tongue and licked languorously along her slit. I had already felt that she was wet when I had ripped her panties and plunged my finger in her twat. Now I was aiming for creating sensation, not moistness – foreplay to rape, if you will.