Stages of Love - The Five Stages of Sexual Response
He was laying on a lounge chair poolside when she walked into his life.
Half-heartedly working on a tan and reading a required work for English
lit for his first semester, he barely glanced up from the book on
hearing Relena’s voice. But the soft yellow swish caught his attention.
For a moment, the world became a narrow corridor of him and her.
daddy said I could bring someone along for the rest of the summer,
since you plan on abandoning me after the Fourth of July dance." Relena
was still talking, dipping a toe into the water and shaking it off.
was standing, dropping his book and whipping off his sunglasses. "I’m
Quatre," he said, holding out a hand, wanting to smile with a mouth
that refused to move.
Her hand was warm, dry and barely touched
his. With the slightest twist of her lips, and a lift of an eyebrow,
she looked him over from sun lotion slicked chest to nylon hugging
trunks. "Dorothy," she said, giving him another appraisal, "Dorothy
The rest of the afternoon was lost to him, though
he knew he spoke, knew he swam. Dinner was served on the deck table,
and by then Dorothy had donned her sundress again, covering the
startlingly white bikini. Even as Relena was telling him about her
roommate from boarding school, Quatre was only half listening. He was
formulating a plan on how to back out of leaving the lake house early
and not returning home for a month of working for his father prior to
It was approaching midnight when he walked the girls
across the back lawn to Relena’s family summer home. He agreed to meet
up with them the following morning, for sailing, lunch and an afternoon
swim. Dorothy was wearing that smile, making him feel as though he was
twelve and his voice was cracking at every other word. The hand she
drew down the inside of his arm made him believe he was fifteen and was
popping a boner at every pretty girl who walked by.
he jerked off to visions of her - a cupped handful of water she
dribbled over her chest, wetting her top and showing a hint of
darkened, erect nipple. The white of her suit in stark contrast to her
tanned skin and her hair long and straight and bleached almost white
from the sun.
His breathing slowed and heated flesh cooled.
Plans were going to change; something worth pursuing came along.
The song was drawing to a close, and the guitar riffs were already beginning on the next. Quatre let his hold relax, though his hand stayed on the small of her back. He jerked his chin, pointing off the dance floor, and mouthed - drink? - knowing she’d never hear him over the music. At the lift of her lips, he guided her to the refreshment table.
It wasn’t even ten, and the cotillion ballroom was crowded, its fans doing little to alleviate the heat of the many moving, jostling bodies. Even as he sipped his punch, Quatre formed his plan, one he was certain Dorothy would be agreeable to. Dorothy turned from watching the dancers, and he flushed, his mouth parted to ask. Her eyes narrowed and slid away toward the opened door to the parking lot. His cup tumbled over, the remaining punch staining the white tablecloth, but by then, they were moving away.
On the entryway steps, Quatre shoved his hands in his pockets; temptation inches away, and too hot to touch. "Would you," he started, looking away from her to the lot, searching for his car, "like to go for a drive?"
She didn’t say a word, but slid her arm through his and inclined her head. He accepted it as a yes, and held his arm still as her breast rubbed against it. The walk to the car was both too long and too short, delicious torture of being too near, and yet, not close enough.
Five minutes down one of the lake roads, in the drive of a family friend not yet arrived at the lake, Quatre pulled the car around back, behind the house with a view of the lake, hidden from the road. He sat listening to the engine cool, insects buzz and chirp down in the reeds and Dorothy’s dress crinkle as she shifted. He turned and she was there, her hand already rising to his face and he leaned closer. Her breath was warm and smelled like the punch she’d drank, but her eyes were closing and their lips were meeting and suddenly it didn’t matter.
An eon in minutes, time was moving too fast. Dorothy was pushing on his chest, murmuring words in his mouth. He was pressing her against the door on her side, his hands attempting to infiltrate the dress barrier, the window behind her fogged.
"No," she was saying, and he pulled back, closed his eyes and sucked oxygen for his brain.
"Dorothy," her name a whisper, a thought, a plea.
Her hands were on his chest, his shirt undone and her nails raked soft furrows to his waist. "Your family won’t be back until Friday, right?" she was asking, fingers tracing the hard bulge he couldn’t mask.
Quatre swallowed and tried to make his tongue work. Instead he nodded.
"Good," she said, and smiled.
It was the first time he nearly crashed his car driving two houses away.
Plateau of Arousal
The sun from the window was slanted wrong, teasing light tinged red through his eyelids. An unfamiliar, but rousing weight was lying across his chest, over his legs. Breath, in rhythmic puffs tickled the skin on his shoulder. Warm, soft flesh, curved under his fingertips.
He blinked his eyes opened, feeling his cock hardening from the lingering scent of their sex the night before. Dorothy shifted under his hand, her legs parted. He watched as her eyelids lifted a fraction and her mouth opened in short panting breathes. She was as beautiful then in first morning light as she had been the night before and he was kissing her even as he felt her body shuddering, felt the slick wetness coat his fingers.
"Morning," he murmured, trailing kisses down from her mouth to her neck.
Dorothy was making shivery agreeable noises, her hand cupping his hip. "Good morning."
Her dorm room bed was too narrow for more than lying face to face. "When’s your roommate coming back?" he was asking, teasing a nipple and keeping time stroking lazily with his fingers.
"This afternoon." She was arching into his mouth and trying to draw her knees up.
"Good," was all Quatre said before rolling her under him, and crouching between her legs. He plied lips and tongue to her nipple again, his hand angling his cock; her legs were already parted, her breath held with eyes wide open.
And he was sliding inside, Dorothy’s gasp a lingering sigh and her fingernails bit into the flesh of his shoulders. He settled deep, her thighs squeezing tight on his hips as his cock was being squeezed and held. He closed his eyes but snapped them open at Dorothy’s command.
"Eager?" he drawled but was moving, his need also urgent.
She didn’t answer, but her eyes were flashing and a hand slid down his side and was firmly planted on his ass. When he slowed to test, she encouraged his pace. It was too soon; he wanted more. Dorothy was already making those little panting whines letting him know how close she was. His body reacted, driving in quick thrusts, bringing him to the brink and her shuddering and clenching pushed him over. He was coming, saying nonsense things and cradling her close, kissing her neck, her chin, her mouth.
His breathing steadied, and he still lay on her, letting one of her hands finger through his hair and the back of one of her heels rub at his calf. She was watching him through half-closed eyes, a liquid smile on her lips.
"I mean it, you know," he whispered, kissing her mouth, wishing she wouldn’t look at him like that.
She only smiled softer and brought a hand up to touch his face. "I’m sure you do."
He couldn’t help but jerk away from her touch. "Damnit! How many times do I have to say it for you to believe me? I love you."
And Dorothy laughed softly, rising up to kiss him, clenching vaginal walls around his softening cock. "My dearest Quatre, you are such a boy." She arched up into him, covering his mouth with hers at his protest. "A very talented one, but still such a boy."
He was still waiting, leaning against the wall when Dorothy’s roommate left their dorm. On seeing him, the girl stopped and gave a snort. She locked the door and pulled her coat closer about her body before facing him.
"She’s not here. So why don’t you go home."
Quatre shook his head. "She called me..."
"And you were too busy to come see her. She needed you last night, jackass." The girl, Mariam he thought her name was, dropped her key ring into her purse and closed it with a snap. "Had to take care of things herself."
"I had a final and I told her I’d..." he started to protest and stopped speaking suddenly. His mouth opened and closed, and Quatre took a step forward. "Take care of things?" he asked softly.
The girl snorted again, turning away from him. "Yeah, you know. A girl’s got to take care of herself these days."
"What’d she do?" he was demanding of her, his hand squeezing her arm through her coat.
"Hey!" the girl’s voice was loud and drew the attention of others in the hall, from their rooms. Jerking her arm free, she took several steps back. "You’ll have to ask her when she comes back." And then she was turning from him, walking quickly away.
Quatre watched her go, listened to her footfalls on the stairs, hope withering with each sound. He moved aside for a resident, his mind still on the call. Dorothy had been upset. Dorothy had been crying. But Dorothy didn’t cry. But then, Dorothy had never been pregnant before. He was going to be a father.
He slid down the wall, hugged his legs, and dropped his head to his knees. His options were narrowed to one. Now it was a matter of making the arrangements. Ideas and plans swirled and it took her saying his name twice for Quatre to realize Dorothy had come home.
"You might as well come inside," she was saying, opening the door and moving away from him. He followed slowly, working the pins and needles from his feet, shutting the door behind them. She had tossed her purse and keys on her desk, and he watched as she slipped the scarf from her neck.
"Thanksgiving week begins the twentieth," he said, her fingers stilled on the buttons of her coat. "We can get married then, find a little apartment off-campus..."
"No." Her coat was off now, and she draped it over the back of her desk chair.
"I... I could go to work for my dad, then," Quatre moved closer, coming to stand behind her, reaching for her.
Dorothy pulled away, turning to face him. "You don’t have to worry about it anymore." Her eyes were cold, hard and Quatre was torn - move away or touch her and break. "I took care of it myself."
He gaped at her and shook his head slowly. "No... no Dorothy, no..."
"Yes, Quatre. And now, I think it best for you to never come back again." She picked up her coat, went to the closet and hung it from a hanger. "Go back to your daddy and your safe little world. Find some nice girl to have your family with."
And he left, not aware of the tears until the November wind chilled them on his face.
"You were supposed to stay in school," she was saying, her eyes closed. "but you never did what you were supposed to do, did you?"
Quatre watched her face as she spoke, watched how she controlled the hitch in her breathing, clenched his hands into fists at the shallow cheeks and darkened skin around her eyes. But, his own voice was controlled, calm as he answered.
"No, I suppose I didn't." His lips lifted in a hint of a smile, though she wasn’t looking at him.
She was quiet, and for a moment, Quatre thought she had fallen asleep. He let himself look at her again; his shock long resigned with the knowledge provided. Though she had been slender, and he thought she would work hard to maintain her trimness, she was skeletal now. Her arms had lost so much flesh, and her body too thin under the blanket covering.
Off to the other side of her bed, a heart monitor was beeping in steady rhythm. The IV stand was like some kind of demented Maypole - festooned with plastic tubing, plastic bags in various stages of fullness. The lighting dimmed to shadows with only a single low-wattage lamp behind her bed. The curtains were drawn to the outside, keeping the sunlight from causing more pain. But. He could still hear the birds in the tress in the small garden park adjacent to the hospital. He knew there were flowers growing, and the grass was still green, the sky blue and the sun warm and nurturing overhead.
"I am only going to tell you this once." Dorothy was speaking again, her eyes now opened and staring at him. "Nothing of what's happened is your fault." She drew deep on her air tube, fought a cough and continued. "I do not apologize for what I have done, but I am sorry for how it turned out."
Quatre drew in a breath and exhaled slowly. His eyes were stinging and he was blinking rapidly. Fourteen years should have been enough time to not feel the pain any longer. There was nothing he could say now that would change what happened then.
Not even twenty-four hours before, he had been out on his deck, laying on a lounge with Trowa, when the call came. Four hours later, they were both on a flight back east. Dorothy was dying and needed to speak with him one last time. She had hours only.
She was struggling to keep her eyes opened and Quatre rose to his feet. He stepped closer to the bed, leaned over the rail and brushed with gentle fingers at the hair clinging to a sticky brow.
"If you have done anything to cause harm to me, I forgive you." And he gave her a smile with a kiss. Her eyes fluttered shut, but she was smiling.
He was sitting on a vinyl-covered plastic chair in the waiting lounge, Trowa was holding his hand and his eyes were watching his thirteen year-old son when she walked out of his life.