by Olivia Myers
“I want to know— uh, I don’t know how to say it. Trust me this is, like, totally embarrassing. But it was pretty. I guess…I guess I want to know how you write that way.”
“You want to know how I write?” Imogen repeated dumbly. Could this really be happening? Had Cassandra taken her alone, to a place where Imogen thought surely she would die, to ask how to get advice in writing? It was impossible—better than anything she could possibly imagine.
“Yeah,” Cassandra nodded. It was the first time Imogen had seen Cassandra shy and it was as though she had stumbled in on some terrible secret. Suddenly, she was filled with an enormous sense of her own power. This other girl wanted something from her. Imogen had power over her. She felt her terror transform itself into a new feeling of control.
And Cassandra knew that she was giving up the control she held over Imogen. Her face and the way it had softened told Imogen that she recognized this new relationship and had agreed to it. Now she was putting herself into Imogen’s power.
“How I write,” Imogen repeated again, and now she grew bold. She knew how to talk about her writing. This was home ground. “Well, I guess I can write because I’ve been in love.”
“In love?” Cassandra said doubtfully. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It makes sense,” said Imogen. “You just have to trust it. It’s about putting someone else in front of you and trying to see everything through that person. It’s about trying to understand someone completely, from the inside out.”
Another step. Was Cassandra really allowing this? How could she? How had things become so confusing? Imogen didn’t want to question it. She just wanted to get as close to her lover as she could before this dream faded into wakefulness and everything fell apart.
“And you’ve felt that?” Cassandra asked. Her confident voice had become a whisper. It was evident that she was just as confused and just as fascinated as Imogen.
“Yes. In fact, I can’t remember a day when I haven’t felt it.” As though through a mind of their own, Imogen’s fingers began stroking lightly the fine hairs of Cassandra’s bare arms. The other girl shuddered and jerked back involuntarily. But Imogen pursued her. She put of her hands on Cassandra’s arms and drew her close.
What was she doing? How could she be doing it? She’d never been so bold in her life. But then, she’d never felt so in control as she felt now, so sure of her own movements. And then, as quick as lightning, Cassandra’s open mouth was on Imogen’s, fighting with it, stuffing in her wet tongue with a greed that left Imogen breathless.
It was like honey. It was like a drink from some delicious drug. Imogen was delirious. She was sure she wasn’t even conscious. She was elevated somewhere else and watching this life unfolding beneath her. From above she saw the girl she recognized dimly as herself embraced by this golden-haired goddess. She saw herself being pressed against the desk and she heard the moans escape from her mouth as the goddess layered furious kisses all over her face and breasts.
“How is this? How is this?” she heard herself ask. “How is this possible?”
“Don’t talk,” Cassandra ordered. She had regained control and was once more the powerful girl that Imogen knew and loved. “I don’t want to hear your voice at all. I just want to be inside you.”
“Inside me?” Imogen said in a breathless whimper. From her backpack, Cassandra extracted an enormous dildo which she promptly fastened around her waist.
Imogen was breathless with terrified delight. “What,” she said, “what are you doing?”
“Shut up,” said Cassandra, forcing Imogen’s head back on the desk. It was a rough motion but to Imogen it was the tenderest of gestures. Obediently, she spread her legs and pulled up her skirt. The magisterial goddess loomed above her, cock held firmly in hand. “If you open your mouth you’re going to get eight inches of cock down your throat.”
“Please…” whimpered Imogen. Then, sudden as a storm, the dildo was between her legs, moving inside her. Imogen couldn’t breathe. She was filled to burst.
Slowly, Cassandra maneuvered herself back and forth, adjusting the dildo deeper and deeper still, angling herself on top of Imogen. Her thighs rotated forwards and backwards, feeling for a rhythm. And then, with her thighs working and rotating and pumping, she bent down and tore open Imogen’s shirt and bra, revealing the small breasts and beautifully erect nipples. With the same roughness with which she’d penetrated Imogen, Cassandra squeezed one nipple into her mouth and nipped it playfully before enveloping it fully with her mouth, as though it were a ripe strawberry.
“Oh fuck me, fuck me!” Cassandra moaned into Imogen’s chest. Imogen was quiet. She was afraid of how Cassandra would punish her if she spoke. So she dared not utter a word, even though the dildo was penetrating her, translating the pleasure that at the beginning had been so divine into a pain growing more intense by the moment.
But still she didn’t speak. She rocked her thighs to help Cassandra move still deeper, and together they were forming one rhythm, interpenetrated, between pleasure and pain.
And then, as suddenly as she had begun, Cassandra stopped. She removed the dildo and sat up off of Imogen’s chest. The kisses ceased. There was no explanation for the stop, only the labored breaths of the two girls. Imogen tried to break it. “Cassandra,” she whispered, tenderly, hopefully.
“Okay,” the other girl said roughly. “I think that’s enough.” She packed the dildo away and buckled up her jeans and headed for the door.
“Cassandra, what was that?” Imogen asked, still hopeful. It had been painful but she still felt in the presence of a magnificent goddess, and she still felt the intensity of the pleasure that had accompanied it all. The kisses Cassandra had left on her nipples were melting into her, suffusing her with her lover.
Cassandra paused as though to consider Imogen’s question. “That,” she said at length. “That wasn’t anything.”
And without bothering to see if Imogen had pulled her skirt back up, or had at least gotten up from the desk, she swept out of the room, leaving nothing behind but the sweetness of her kisses and the dull ache from where she’d penetrated Imogen.
Chapter 7
It would have been suicide for Imogen to have said anything to anyone what happened with Cassandra, so she’d kept the secret to herself, though it had pained her to do so. She felt that she had awakened, had come out of some obscure hole and discovered how bright and how beautiful the world was. She had to tell someone or else she would die.
Cerise would understand. Cerise was worldly and smart and completely comfortable in her own skin in a way that was more admirable than enviable. Imogen determined that she would make it out to the Rose as soon as possible.
However, the week proved surprisingly busy. There were essays to write for her other classes and Ivanhoe to read for Miss McReddy. There were also poems that Imogen had the sudden inspiration to write, and any time remaining after her studies was taken up by her project. So enraptured had she become in her writing that she hardly noticed the passing of the week. And then it was Saturday, the day of the competition.
Imogen hadn’t forgotten to submit her entry: a collection of formal poems she called simply The Poet to Her Lover. Now the big day had come and nervous as she was, she was filled with a happy anticipation. Even though Cassandra had been her usual, cold self throughout the week, Imogen knew that once she heard the poem addressed to her, there would be a change.
The competition took place in one of the seldom-used turrets of the castle. There were no classrooms here, but there was a big, open space perfect for performances or announcements.
When Imogen arrived, the assembly hall was halfway filled. Girls stood, chatting with one another, drinking tea or coffee or eating cookies they’d gotten from the well-stocked side stand. From the corner of her eye she saw her group talking amongst one another. She waved and pointed to the snack bar. She’d have a cup of coffee first before joining them.
“Rat-a-tat!”
The familiar squeal came. Imogen stopped in place and prepared to confront her tormenters. It was strange, she thought. Two weeks ago the taunts of the Golden Girls would have filled her with dread and fear, but now she was simply annoyed. It was as though she’d gained a kind of invincibility and now she had the power to know their weakness.
“Rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat!” The squeals continued until the Golden Girls were standing there before her, grinning lewdly.
Imogen was a little surprised to see Cassandra among them, but she covered her surprise well. “Hello,” she said.
“So Rat-a-tat, have you got something to show us? You know, Cassandra’s singing a song she wrote herself. What kind of lame bullshit are you going to do today?”
“I’m going to recite a poem,” she said, still calm. The words seemed to fill her with a certain power. She kept steady and turned her eyes to Cassandra to see if there was anything in her lover she could read. There was not.
“A poem?” the Golden Girls mocked. “Oh we’ve already heard all about your poem.”
“I doubt it,” said Imogen, attempting to break away.
“Oh yes we do,” one of them said. “The Poet to Her Lover. We know all about that gross, lezzie stuff you like, and we think it’s disgusting.”
Imogen felt herself go pale. Wildly, she tried to read Cassandra’s expression, but Cassandra’s face was as inscrutable as ever. There was no support there. Dry-mouthed, Imogen replied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know exactly what we’re talking about,” the chorus came back at her. “And let us say something else too. Next time you try that lezzie seduction bullshit on one of us, you’re not going to get away with it so easily, you little perv.”
Imogen felt growing so pale she thought she would pass out. Obviously the girls knew what had happened, or at least a version of it. But from whom had they heard it? Had it been Cassandra?
“It’s not true,” whispered Imogen. The weight was gone out of her. She was so weak she could collapse. “Cassandra,” she said, making a direct appeal. “Cassandra, say it’s not true. Cassandra!”
“Don’t talk to me,” the voice of the golden-haired goddess cut through Imogen like a razor. “Don’t even say my name, you scummy little perv. I don’t want you within ten miles of me.”
“Cassandra, please,” Imogen said, tears slipping out of her eyes and down her cheeks. But whatever effect the appeal might have held was lost.
Cassandra’s eyes didn’t hold the faintest recognition of the girl pleading before her. It was evident that Imogen had already been forgotten, if she had ever truly existed for Cassandra as anything more than an object to be tormented.
And as blind to Imogen as Imogen was blinded by her tears, Cassandra followed the Golden Girls to the stage, never once looking back on the lover she’d spurned.
Chapter 8
It was impossible for Imogen to read her poem now. She couldn’t even speak, she was so traumatized. In the hallway outside the auditorium she cried until there was nothing left within her to cry out, and then she cried dry tears. She didn’t know how long she wept.
The world passed around her in a dim collection of shapes and sensations. She was aware of voices coming from the other room, of words and music. And finally she was aware of the voice of one of the professors saying the name of the winner which, if she hadn’t heard it announced, she would have heard a moment later as it was echoed through the mouths of more than a hundred girls: Cassandra! Cassandra!
Cassandra. The name seemed to rip Imogen up out of her sorrow and back into wakefulness. Dimly she recognized the name and keenly she felt all the pain the name awoke within her. But for Imogen, the name was already something of a memory, for though she recognized it the name she attached to it was receding gradually from her sight, into shadow.
Cassandra! Cassandra! The voices continued to chant.
“Cassandra,” Imogen repeated the name. The golden-haired girl at once sprang into her mind, and the dull, painful longing sprang along with it. Yes, Imogen realized, she’d loved her deeply, intensely, stupidly. And that was perhaps the only way to love. And even if she hadn’t been loved in return, she knew that she loved still and might always love.
It was thinking about her love for the girl who had betrayed her that led Imogen back into the assembly hall. The girls were a muddle once again, talking excitedly and recounting the events. Imogen walked dimly though not purposelessly through it all. She knew what she was searching for. A head of golden hair.
And then, she found it, surrounded by adoring fans. Queenly, vibrant and fiery, Cassandra laughed and celebrated. But there was something in the face that Imogen hadn’t been able to see before. An ugly cruelty, twisting the features of the face into undesirable caricatures of themselves. It was still a beautiful face, but now Imogen saw it for its subterfuge and this sad knowledge gave her protection.
“Cassandra,” she said. All eyes riveted to her.
“Well,” said the goddess. “Well.”
It took an incredible amount of strength for Imogen to stand before her lover and to be proud. And yet Imogen knew she must. There was no choice.
“Congratulations, Cassandra,” Imogen said, ignoring the pain that uttering the name caused her. The other girls waited, breathless.
Imogen took a deep breath. “I know you don’t think much of me, but I admire you and your talent,” she said, and gestured at Cassandra’s guitar. “I think you can do something with it.”
The other girls burst into laughter at Imogen’s formality. She ignored it and continued. “I have friends who could put you in touch with other people. They’ve already put out albums.”
“You mean,” Cassandra said, her cruel grin widening. “You came here to say that you’d help me?”
“If you were smart, you’d let me help you,” Imogen went on doggedly. “I help people because I’m not cruel. And even though I know you’re going to say you don’t need my help, I know you do. Because you don’t know the people I do. They’re the most interesting people in the world.”
“Ah,” Cassandra nodded knowingly. “So you want me to go to your pervy little club. Is that it?”
“I want you to sing so that they can see how good you are,” Imogen said. She was almost breathless. There was just a little more to say and then she’d be done.
“And you really think I’m going to go to your club with you?”
“Yes, if you were smart.”
Something about Imogen’s tone and the way she abandoned herself to the struggle impressed and shocked Cassandra. It registered in her face. It was clear that she didn’t know how to respond.
“Well,” she said finally. “Maybe I will. But then, you’ve got to do something else for me.”
“I don’t have to do anything for you.” She felt tears in her eyes. She withheld them.
“Yes you do. If you want me going to your little club, you’ve got to tell me why. Normal people don’t act this way. I want to know what’s got you so inspired.”
“But I’ve already told you.”
“You haven’t given me a real answer.”
“I gave you your answer days ago,” Imogen said. “When I told you how to write.” Imogen couldn’t hold back the tears anymore and they trickled down her eyes. “I told you that it’s because I’m in love. Still in love, if you can imagine it. I love you Cassandra,” she said.
Cassandra turned away, embarrassed.
“I love you,” Imogen repeated. “Even if I hate you, I still love you.”
“Okay, perv,” Cassandra said. “Don’t say it again and I’ll go to your stupid club.”
And with that, the Golden Girls clattered away into the crowd, looking more dumbfounded and confused than ever.
Chapter 9
As soon as Imogen stepped through the doors of the Red Red Rose, it was obvious that the mixer was a roaring success. The place was packed. Vampires and Nocturne’s girls rubbed shoulders, laughing and talki
ng. Obviously Imogen’s work had accomplished its purpose. Even the Golden Girls looked impressed, although of course they did not mention this.
“My pet!” Cerise said. “How did you manage this?”
“I told you I was optimistic,” said Imogen, feeling just the opposite. She’d accomplished a victory earlier, but the pain of Cassandra’s rejection was still fresh and aching within her.
“Oh, Imogen,” said Cerise, sensing something. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know if I can,” Imogen said honestly. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to speak about it.”
“Then come back with me and I’ll try to relax it out of you.”
Obediently, Imogen took the hand that was offered her and followed Cerise through the crowd, just as she had done her first time at the Rose, all the way to the room she’d gone to before. She lay her head down on Cerise’s lap and let the vampire stroke her hair. What she needed was comfort. The touch of another to remind her that she was not alone.
She closed her eyes and let Cerise stroke her hair. With each stroke she felt her problems melt away and ebb into forgetfulness. But then came cries from the other room, and the same chant that had haunted her earlier that evening: Cassandra! Cassandra!
Cassandra was taking the stage in the main room. Through the microphone Imogen could hear her lover thank her friends for their support. The voice filled Imogen with pain.
“Cassandra,” she said. “Cerise, I don’t know if I can ever love again.”
A moment later and there was silence in the other room. Then came the lulling chords of a guitar, and Cassandra’s voice lilting along with the music:
Oh baby, I haven’t treated you right,
And baby, I’ve been bad,
But through all we’ve been
And all that’s happenin’
I’m still here, and always will be.
Oh baby, I’m still here.
