I can see my mom craning her neck, trying to make out who I’m talking to and why, and undoubtedly trying to guess what our conversation might be about as well. I already anticipate her asking me a million nosy questions about it. The last thing I need is for her to overhear any of this conversation or I’ll be grounded in my room with only a Bible and prayer beads until I’m thirty.
“Oh, Elizabeth Jane, don’t leave me hanging!” Diana calls out, as I hurriedly walk over to my mom. “Tell me who you want to tie you up!”
“Hi Mom,” I say, jumping into the passenger seat and closing the door as if I’ve just escaped a fire, hoping that Diana doesn’t say another word.
She doesn’t. It’s pretty clear she’s heard the rumors about me and my crazy mom. Luckily, she just waves at me coyly and winks, as if reminding me of her question.
As if I could forget.
Who do I want to tie me up and make me submit to his every whim?
I’ll never tell a soul. It’s only for me to think about— torture myself about— until I’m old enough and financially independent enough to get away from my mother and be with a real guy in the real world.
Because there’s no way I could be with the man of my fantasies. That would just be too good to be true. So, I’ll keep it a secret that burns me up inside— and makes me drip with desire every time I think about it— for the rest of my life.
Chapter 4 – Elizabeth Jane
“You were talking to that slutty looking girl again?” My mom asks, as soon as I’m in the car. “About what? This is not the first time I’ve seen her chatting you up. Why does she always want to talk to you? Is she trying to corrupt you?”
My mom’s questions always make her seem like a fly I can’t manage to swat away for good, no matter how many times I try. She inevitably comes buzzing back to pester me some more.
I think about telling her the truth. I’d love to see the look on her face. But then she’d drive me straight to church, and I just want to get home to my room— the one place she doesn’t bug me with questions. She thinks I’m studying but I’m usually writing in my “diary” and then tearing it all to shreds.
So, I just tell her, “Nothing, Mom. Can we please go now?”
“Should I go talk to her and tell her you’re a sweet, innocent girl who doesn’t appreciate someone wearing that outfit trying to influence your decisions in this evil world?”
Mom scowls as she looks up and down at Diana’s short black skirt and tight neon pink tank top that shows off her busty cleavage. It’s a bold fashion choice—80’s-esque— but no more “revealing and immodest,” as my mother would call it—than anything anyone else wears around here in the summer. I’m sure Diana was just trying to catch Dr. Calvert’s attention by dressing that way.
“Mom, please,” I tell her. “We were only talking about the professor’s lecture, that’s all. Let’s just go.”
“So, this is a psychology class?” Mom asks, for the millionth time.
“Yes,” I confirm, which is only half true.
I’m not going to tell her it’s evolutionary psychology. From sixth grade—when middle school started, through twelfth grade— when senior high ended, she pulled me out of any science course that taught evolution, so this course is as close as I’ve come to learning anything about the theory. If she knew that not only was I learning about any kind of evolution but also that the kind I was learning about involved sex, she would probably pull me out of college completely.
“I need to look into whatever crazy new age theories they might be teaching you,” she replies. “But not tonight. Right now, I need to stop at the store to pick up bananas, socks and my medicine.”
I roll my eyes. I know how necessary it is for her to go to the store— I’d hate to see her off her crazy meds, let alone ranting about her feet being cold if she doesn’t get her random need for new socks fulfilled— but I really don’t want to go.
“Mom, I have to study,” I groan.
It’s true, even though I’ve done most of it during my breaks in between classes. Since Mom drops me off at campus and picks me back up, I have to take the bus if I want to go anywhere in between classes. So, it’s usually easier to just sit in the food court or walk across the street to Campus Coffee— the knock off Starbucks that caters to college students like me who are too poor to afford the real thing— and study there.
“Fine, I’ll drop you off and be right back,” she says, as if I’ll be pining away for her in her absence.
Of course, quite the opposite is true. A chill runs down my spine at the opportunity to be home alone without my mother’s constant presence and incessant questions. Since I’m burning up with desire after my confession to Diana about what I’d like to be done to me, I can’t wait to entertain my fantasies in private. And I can only do that when my mom’s not home.
So, I do it every chance I get, which isn’t often, since my super religious and overly strict mom is almost always there keeping a watchful eye over me. I’ve been so horny that it’s driving me crazy.
Since I can’t actually have sex, or my mom will kill me, or at the very least she would cut me off financially when I can’t afford college tuition, let alone my own place without her, I have no choice but to do what she says. Therefore, I remain a 19-year-old virgin. But only physically. In my mind, in private, I escape to very dirty places.
No one would understand what it’s like to want to have sex and not be able to. People assume I’m so chaste— even Diana confirmed that just now with her “holier than thou” assessment of me— but the truth is, if they knew my thoughts, they’d think I was depraved and deranged. I only let Diana in on the half of it when I decided to spill some of my private fantasies to her. And if she knew who I wanted to carry them out, she would think I was too dirty even for her tastes.
That’s why in addition to having sex, I never even talk about it. Except right now, with Diana, which surprised me, but I’m mostly glad I did. It’s nice to know someone else can relate. But it sure has revved me up for some private time to explore my deepest, darkest fantasies. I have a feeling that it’s going to be so good I’m going to forget I’m all alone, rather than with the guy I really wish was fulfilling them.
Chapter 5 – Elizabeth Jane
When we get home, Mom drops me off and says, “Good luck with your studies, Dear.”
I nod obediently and do my best not to skip into the house. I feel like doing a happy dance, but I refrain.
I’m so glad to have some alone time. Still thinking of the lecture earlier and my conversation with Diana afterwards, I get out my journal and write, “I want to be devoured by an alpha male predator.”
If my mom was home, I would write more about the fantasy that sentence might inspire. But since she’s not, I can take full advantage of thinking about what I would like to happen.
Later, I’ll tear up this page and throw away the tiny pieces of what cannot be. Right now, though, I’m going to pretend that it can be. I lay back on my bed with my legs spread open, touching my clit and wishing that it was someone else touching me.
One time I was able to go to a co-ed slumber party. Sadly, it’s about the only fun thing I’ve gotten to do in my life. My mom had to go out of town for training for work, so she took me to my aunt’s house, who lives about an hour away.
My cousin was having the sleepover and she told me not to not to tell my strict mom about the party and I listened, although I was terrified she’d find out. During the sleepover, everyone played Truth or Dare, and I let a guy finger me. That’s about as far as I’ve gotten sexually, and I still can’t believe I did it. I just threw caution to the wind and decided to go for it because it might be the only chance that I would ever get to explore like that— or let someone else explore me like that— and so far, I’ve been right.
This guy was nothing to look at— my cousin is only slightly less socially awkward than I am, and the few friends she has are pretty nerdy— but it was still exciting and fel
t good. And now I like to do it to myself, because it feels amazing.
I started out way back when by imitating what the guy at the sleepover had done to me. But since then I’ve become a lot better at it than he was. I push in and out of myself with the finger of one hand while rubbing my clit with my other hand. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to having sex and it feels like a drug. Sometimes once I get started I can’t stop, and I do it over and over, feeling my own soppy juices and turning into a quivering mess on my bed.
The guy who fingered me was scrawny and pimpled and definitely not good looking, so I never think about him, except for how forbidden it felt to have his finger down there in my most private area. For some reason—perhaps because he was my age, and so bad at fingering me— I always fantasize about being with older men. I like to think about the more experienced, sexy men who would be able to take me to a whole new level compared to the few minutes of what my friends back in high school called “finger banging.”
So, while I pinch and rub my clit and finger myself slowly and then more rapidly, I think about being with someone sexier and better than the guy who did it before. Sometimes I think about the older guy who owns the donut store around the block. Then there are a couple of neighborhood guys on my block who are fathers of kids— now adults— around my own age, but these fathers are always jogging and they’re in really good shape.
I guess I just must have a thing for older men because all the men I fantasize about happen to be a lot older than I am. But it’s always just a fantasy. It doesn’t mean I’d actually let them take my virginity. At least, that’s what I tell myself— maybe because I don’t think there’s any chance of it really happening.
One guy I always think about while I touch myself, no matter what, is my family doctor, Dr. Monroe. That’s my dirty little secret I didn’t want to let Diana know about.
Like the neighborhood guys who jog around my block, Dr. Monroe is old enough to be my father, except that he’s even more good looking than they are. He has dark hair with some gray mixed in— salt and pepper style— and thick rimmed glasses. But that just makes him look wise and sexy. He’s in very good shape and I can just tell when I look at him in his Oxford shirt and white lab coat that he has chiseled abs.
I hate to admit even to myself that I fantasize about Dr. Monroe because I’ve been a patient of his practice for years and I’ve known him since I was a little girl. It’s just plain filthy that I think about him in that way. But I can’t help my thoughts. And I know he can’t really take my virginity even though I would totally let him. He’s so sexy, with a full head of hair and a mischievous grin.
After today’s psychology lecture and my talk with Diana, I can’t help but think about Dr. Monroe while I’m touching myself. To be more precise, I’m wondering what would happen if Dr. Monroe decided to go a little further with me than normal during a doctor’s exam.
This is my dirty secret— the one person I wish would do everything Diana talked about and more, to me. It’s so naughty it’s unspeakable. But that doesn’t mean I can’t think about it and wish it could actually happen. Which I often do, and am doing right now.
I imagine Dr. Monroe opening my legs and spreading them even wider than they are now. He’ll tell me he needs to examine me with his big cock. And then he’ll put it inside me, just like my own finger is right now, each time coming out wetter and wetter with my juice.
I can’t stop thinking about how it would feel if he were really to take my virginity. I’m sure he has a long, thick cock that would hurt going in but feel so good doing to me what my own hands cannot. Maybe after he was finished with me he would spill his cum all over me to mark me as his own….
I’m just on the verge of climaxing when I hear the angry sound of throat- clearing. What the hell? Had I been so caught up in fantasizing about Dr. Monroe that I didn’t even hear anyone come into the house?
Sure enough, my mother walks right into my room, destroying my sex life—or what little of it I have— my dignity, and no doubt my entire life, yet again.
Chapter 6 – Elizabeth Jane
Luckily my hands are hidden under my bedspread and I quickly jump up, startled, trying to act as if everything is normal. But my mom is onto me.
“Elizabeth Jane! What in the…”
Her eyes are pointed into two beady dots staring right in my direction. I know she’s about to give me a lecture about purity and hell. I try to defend myself.
“What, me?” I exclaim. “I’m just sitting here. How about what you? You just barged right in without knocking!”
“This is my house and I have every right to walk into any room I want to walk into,” she said. “Plus, the reason I came back was that I needed to grab a sweater. It’s gotten chilly outside. I decided to come ask you if I could borrow that cute pink one I bought for you at T.J. Maxx. And then I started thinking about how much I’d really like for you to come with me, to the grocery store and then afterwards we could go shopping at T.J. Maxx again.”
I try to resist rolling my eyes. My mom really needs to make another friend aside from me.
“I didn’t mean to leave you out just because you have to study,” she continues. “I realized I could have helped you with your homework and then we could hurry and go afterwards. As soon as I drove off I was just kicking myself, knowing it was rude of me, so I came back to offer.”
She says this in her normal tone, which is always full of martyrdom (and as usual, she says things like “homework” instead of “studying,” that make me sound like I’m younger than I am). She knows I don’t like to shop with her— or do much of anything with her these days— so I’m sure she just came in to check up on me. She’s always suspicious that I’m up to something.
And this time she sure found out what I’m up to, all right. She’s always waiting to pounce on me for “sinning,” no matter what I do, and I’ve never even done anything very wrong.
“Young lady,” she says, sitting daintily down on the side of my bed as if it’s infested with cooties. “I can’t believe what I just saw here. I thought you told me you were pure.”
“I am, Mom! I promise.”
An image flashes through my mind. It’s one of being fingered in front of a small group of friends sitting in a circle. It slightly turns me on, which is inconvenient timing. But it also makes me worry that somehow my mother will find out that I’m impure because of this one incident.
“What I just witnessed was not the action of a pure young lady,” my mother chastises.
I’m mortified that she’s caught me masturbating, but I still want to roll my eyes.
What does she think a college-aged woman does if she’s not allowed to have sex? I think.
I want to tell her she should be glad I was only thinking impure thoughts and not acting on them, or at least not with another person.
But then she drops a bombshell on me.
“That’s it, Elizabeth Jane. You don’t listen to a word I say anymore. I really think something’s wrong with you. I’m scheduling you for an appointment with Dr. Monroe.”
“Dr. Monroe?” I repeat, squirming underneath my comforter.
What does he have to do with anything, other than being the reason that I’m dripping wet down there right now? I wonder.
“I’m going to have him examine you to make sure you’re still pure.”
“You can’t do that, Mom! I’m nineteen years old!”
I’m so mad at her that I want to leave the house and never come back. I would do it too, if I had anywhere else to go, or any money to get me there.
How embarrassing.
“If you want to remain under this roof, you’ll agree to the examination,” my mom says, her mind made up.
This is another one of her reminders that I have to keep living with her unless I want to drop out of college and be homeless.
“I want Dr. Monroe to report back to me with his findings,” she says resolutely.
“Report back to you…”<
br />
I’m speechless. Then I get mad. I know I have rights, even if she doesn’t want to think so.
“Clearly what you’re suggesting would violate HIPAA law, Mom.”
“I don’t know what that law is, and I don’t care about it at all,” she says, still authoritatively defiant. “I only care about God’s law. Which you’re breaking. There is obviously something wrong with a young woman who can’t wait until she’s married to experiment properly, with her husband. Maybe Dr. Monroe can examine your mental state too, and tell me if there’s something wrong with you psychologically.”
She juts out her chin in that stubborn manner she has, as if it’s her final word on the subject.
“That makes no sense, Mom,” I protest. “Dr. Monroe is a family practitioner. I doubt he knows anything about mental health or even about conducting purity examinations and reporting to mothers the results of whether their adult daughters have broken God’s laws.”
He’s going to laugh you right out of his office, I think. I really hope that he will.
Except first I want to see him. Just to get a peek of his handsome face and muscular body. Seeing him in person again will really be helpful for the next time I need “inspiration” for my fantasies.
With a mixture of dread and excitement I wait while my mom goes to her room and makes the call to schedule my appointment. I feel like a naughty eight-year-old who has just gotten caught trying to steal cookies from the cookie jar.
But part of me hopes that Dr. Monroe will be as happy to see me as I know that I will be to see him. It’s been awhile since I was in his office— the last time had been for my field hockey physical, senior year, to be precise— and I could have sworn he had flirted with me.
At the time, I had just chalked it up to the fact that he has a very outgoing and charming personality. But now I can’t help but hope it’s because he actually finds me as attractive as I find him.
Four Billionaires for St. Patrick's Day Page 112
