Free The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica by Barbara Cardy

paper which waited for me at the bottom of the pile.
    By the time I settled into bed that night with my self-congratulatory whisky, Sloane’s paper, and a red pen, I was tired, my eyes dry and my hand cramped from writing. Still, I
didn’t for a moment consider putting off reading her words until the next day. She was to be my reward.
    The work was titled Please . . . and subtitled “A Play”. She had excelled at the short story format all semester, so I was a bit surprised at the change in medium. However,
another of my students had written a screenplay, and several had written poetry for their final assignments. I turned to the first page. Written carefully in the centre – in what I assumed
must be Sloane’s handwriting – were these words:
    “Just as cave paintings should be seen, plays should be performed – not read. I promise you that I know my role.”
    The next page began with the word “ CHARACTERS ” printed in bold face, and underneath that, these words:
    SLOANE
    Sloane has always desired domination at the hands of another woman – someone older, stronger, more able to control her than lovers her own age. She keeps this
     fantasy to herself, sure that few understand her desire, but also sure that when the woman appears who can dominate Sloane the way she needs to be dominated – they will both know it. And
     then Sloane will need only to wait to be told what time, what place, how to please . . .
    On the next page, the words “ACT I” were printed in bold face. The rest of the pages were blank.
    The next morning, I left the critiqued papers with the department secretary – each paper sealed inside an envelope – and turned in my students’ final grades.
I was mostly packed, but finished a few last minute errands, locked up my apartment, and drove to the lake.
    The lake house had been in my family for three generations, coming to me after the death of my parents. My grandfather had built the house and, even though it was meant only as a summer getaway,
he designed it to withstand the storms that blew off the lake all winter. It still gave me a sense of strength.
    I aired out the house, tended to the immediate chores, and fell asleep exhausted.
    Graduation was the next morning. Sitting on the porch, looking out over the lake while I drank my first cup of coffee, I imagined the cap and gown parade, the incessant clicking of cameras, the
faces of proud parents. I knew the ceremony would be over by noon, Sloane would no doubt have a celebratory lunch with her family, then drive the hour to the lake. In the instructions I had written
on her paper, I told her to arrive no later than 4.
    She was a few minutes early, on edge because she had sped the whole way out of fear of being late. I opened the front door and stood leaning against the frame, watching her
pull a bag from the trunk and lock her car. She didn’t realize I was watching until she started up the porch steps, then gasped when she saw me.
    “I’m sorry,” she said automatically, “you scared me.” Then blushed when I only smiled at her nervousness.
    I held out my hand and led her inside. When I had shut the door behind us, I took the bag from her, and told her to go to the bedroom upstairs, at the back of the house. She started to say
something, but then turned and climbed the stairs, looking back at me over her shoulder for the first few steps.
    The sauvignon blanc was so cold that it frosted the inside of my wine glass.
    She was in the back bedroom, sitting at the foot of the bed, arms crossed as if to protect her from the cold, even though the room was warm. I lifted my glass to her lips and let her take a sip,
while I tucked a few stray locks of hair behind her ear. I rested my fingers lightly against her neck then bent to kiss a drop of wine from her bottom lip. Her eyes were wide and bright with fear,
desire, it didn’t matter which. I resisted the urge to tell her so soon how well she was doing.
    I crossed the room and