Free Marlene by C. W. Gortner

of his fingers. “I don’t know why, but I don’t.”
    He froze. “Do you . . . do you think you might care for me?”
    I considered him. “Why don’t you kiss me and find out?”
    HE LOCKED THE CLASSROOM DOOR and flung himself at me, bruising my lips, his moans guttural as his hands, those veined hands with their tapered fingers, snaked under my dress until he found my hidden place and I let out a startled gasp. It was unlike anything I had felt before, those foreign fingertips dipping inside me, and while I wanted to remain unmoved, in control, I heard myself groan and my hips arched up against him. Animal ardor took over. I was doing exactly what people said I had done, and the savage realization of it was undeniable.
    He laid me on the floor next to my violin case. He didn’t remove his jacket, shirt, or tie; he was so flustered, he merely pushed down his pants and fiddled with something he had pulled from his pocket, a rubbery thing he slipped onto his engorged penis. He murmured, “I don’t want to hurt you,” and I replied, “You won’t.”
    He thrust inside me. Fiery pain lanced my gut. It snagged my breath and it burned but I welcomed it. It was my punishment and reward; it was what I deserved. He bucked hard and his breath came fast. Then he suddenly shuddered, making me clench my teeth against my cry as he yanked out and grappled with his French letter, spilling seed on my thigh.
    The moment afterward, he groaned. “ Gott mich retten, you were a virgin.”
    “No.” I cradled his face. “God has nothing to do with it. I wanted this.”
    He bit his lip, looking between us to my splayed thighs. “How can you know what you want? You’re barely a woman.” But he kissed my mouth softly, so I tasted his salt and smoke. “I didn’t know,” he murmured. “I thought you were . . . more experienced.”
    Had he done this before? I wanted to think not, but his surprise warned me that he probably had. I might be his first virgin but not his first seduction. Only, it felt as if I had ended up seducing him, which pleased me. I hadn’t lacked sufficient talent in this respect.
    Heaving himself off me, he stuffed his rumpled shirt into his trousers and fastened his belt. He kept his eyes averted, ashamed. I sat up, put myself in order. When I stood, a wave of nausea swayed me; I felt blood in my underpants. My groin ached. I’d be sore for days.
    “It’s unforgivable,” he said. He fished a cigarette out of his jacket, lighting it with quivering hands, although smoking was not allowed inside the school. “I am unforgivable.”
    I regarded him pensively. I should be the one telling him this, yet apparently, he had enough guilt for both of us. And in truth, though painful, it hadn’t been entirely unpleasant. With some time and a proper bed, I might even like it. He wasn’t a raw boy making suggestive gestures; he wasn’t going to boast of his conquest to his friends. He had to be discreet. He had a reputation to protect. What we had just done could destroy him, even more than me. The secrecy of it, the conspiracy that united us, appealed. I’d finally had something that I had seized of my own free will. And, more practically, I could stay in Weimar under his tutelage. I could perfect my violin playing and he would keep falsifying my marks. I wouldn’t have to confess my failure to Mutti or return home to confront a future where I had no idea what to do.
    “I wouldn’t mind if we did it again,” I told him as he reached down to hand me my violin case. He paused, startled, watching me take the case and move to the door. I could see by his expression that it was not what he’d anticipated. His voice had the ragged edge of someone who yearns for that which will do them harm. “I will resign, say I am ill, that I cannot teach anymore.”
    I paused, my hand on the doorknob. “Why?”
    “Because it is what I must do,” he cried. He looked desperate, as if he had only just realized the consequences of