My Girl is my Poison

Chapter One

"Miss Carlin, did you hear me?"

It wasn't becoming' for a model student, people always told her. Those people happened to be her white-bread mother and father, Mr. and Mrs. Carlin. They had a tradition of excellence, after all, Yale and Harvard and all that. Yet in the tide of all the pressure that came with their child for meeting those expectations it was pretty certain that they hadn't considered how much potential her love-life, as insignificant as it had been before, had to throw a spanner in the works.

The result was being felt in class.

She had been busted for daydreaming.

Spencer shook her head; whipping herself out of her reverie, as the grating, shrill voice of her battleaxe of a History teacher, Mrs. Swirlin, pitter-pattered into her brain. Upon looking up from the graffiti-stained wood of her desk she saw the shrill woman's disapproving (and somewhat startled) glare. All the way across a room that cold angry stare of hers could cut through many a defense. You expected that with Mrs. Swirlin. But what she clearly didn't expect was to see one of her best students phasing out in the middle of a class. The girl clammed up in her seat as the dozens of eyes in that classroom were now cast at her. Spencer had never been completely comfortable with the attention of others. Nervously, she pulled the dark blonde bangs from her eyes and looked back down at the pink plastic of her notebook, trying as hard as possible to block out all the stares she was getting from the rest of the class.

And in her defense she mumbled to Mrs. Swirlin a tidy and mundane, "Sorry, Mrs. Swirlin".

The old matriarch, her wrinkled brow further creasing in irritation, pulled the reading glasses off of the thinned slit that were here eyes and set down the text she was reading from. "I won't have this in my classroom, Miss Carlin. I expect more from someone like you. Now, if we could all get back to the text at hand..."

Some of the other students started giggling behind her as Spencer opened up her textbook for the subject, Philip Curtin's The Atlantic Slave Trade: A Census. As much as she felt... uncomfortable with that laughter, she didn't expect anything else. It was a patented fact that when someone so classified as a nerd', actually got told off by a teacher, you could be guaranteed a little victory chuckle from the rowdier kids in class. For the most part Spencer just tried to shut it all out and work. But as Mrs. Swirlin began reading mortality figures from the text again, it dawned on Spencer that she still couldn't focus. One look at a page covered with garbled numbers and equations, supposedly indicating traded lives and deaths, at it became to her no more than blurry shapes. A sigh escaped her. She couldn't think.

The girl destined for Ivy League colleges couldn't think.

Spencer exhaled with light frustration and buried her head in her hand, biting her lower lip, trying desperately to think of something other than what had happened last week. But the event had dominated her thoughts every day since then, the normally even march from Monday to Sunday had slowed down into a piddling trawl in which every moment and second was dominated by memory of what a certain someone had taken from her – her virginity.

And the beautiful, sultry thief was a woman, no less.

Even now Spencer was enamored by those memories, remembering every last detail, her continuous breathless sighs, the glossy sheen of sweat that had polished her skin, the wafting fragrance of arousal in the air, and the young but ever so powerful woman taking her forcefully from a stage of social anxiety to a stage of private sexual rapture. At the thought of that day, Spencer felt her tiny nipples swelling underneath her bra and blouse. Reflexively she shut her legs and tried her hardest to shake those thoughts from herself. But irrespective of that wish was a remote image in her head of the girl that had made her feel this way. The lump in her throat was swallowed when Spencer started to unconsciously picture that woman, which provoked an internal cornucopia of feelings... doubt, anger, attraction, fright and confusion, as well as an unmistakable and frighteningly powerful lust. But before she succumbed to those great conflicting emotions the bell rang. Immediately the metal feet of each chair skidded back and a wave of conversation overtook the room as Mrs. Swirlin tried in vain to talk over them and remind them what homework they'd be having over the weekend.

Normally Spencer made a point to listen to what Mrs. Swirlin said about homework, an attitude befitting the jewel of her parent's eye, but not today. Today, like every other day since that...event', Spencer wished only to leave as fast as she could to collect herself, a hope that was often fruitless. Even so she swiftly packed her books and notebook away, along with her pencil case, slung her backpack over her shoulder, and quickly made her way out of the classroom. She was so distracted though that she bumped into the shoulder of a boy (whose name she did not know) on the way to the door.

"Watch where you're going, geek!" He barked, right before adjusting his baseball cap and barging back past her.

"I'm... I'm sorry, I..." Her apologies fell on deaf ears. He was gone by the time she uttered the last syllable. So she went about leaving the room and in thought she thanked whatever deity was popular nowadays that the lunch bell had finally rung. As she walked out into the corridor she was joined by dozens of other students pouring out of their own classrooms and bringing their irrelevant, prattling conversations with them. It was the usual crap. "Did you see that game last night?" and "Dude, my Mom bought a PS3, it's totally fucking awesome!" and "I finally got the phone number of that hottie fullback on the football team! He's so gorgeous!" as well as more of the like. As per usual Spencer was pretty much oblivious to all of it. The words came in but the meaning was lost to her. And since there wasn't a single soul on this good green Earth that she could call a friend (at least not a real one) it became customary for her to merely let it all pass her by.

In a work of rock, pop and rap, Spencer was the odd one out for caring to listen to modern interpretations of Bach. She was the kind of girl who preferred theatrical productions to Tarantino movies, the kind of girl who preferred a philosophical treatise to an X-Box, the kind of girl who preferred discussing globalization and American foreign policy to discussions of fashion trends and local school gossip.

In other words, she was an alien in her world of origin.

Despite what people said of her behind her back (not so well apparently, as she knew what they claimed), Spencer didn't think of herself as better' than the rest of her peers for having those concerns and likings. Not once had she felt or suggested that, no matter how prestigious or pretentious her background was. It was funny how people could hate so easily and on such a shallow basis -- but the irony was lost on her -- and now Spencer had deeper concerns than what biting comment the cheerleaders and the trendies had for her. So she strode down the hall, weaving between all the other students, on her way to the cafeteria. To them she was no more than a nameless face in the crowds. But for one of the first times in her life Spencer was happy that no one would bother her because of that.

The cafeteria wasn't far. All one had to do was exit the building of the humanities department, cross the wide open emerald grass of the courtyard, then walk around the length of the east building, delimited by the expanses of the football pitches and basketball courts. As usual the predominately white football team and the predominantly black basketball team heckled and jibed at each other, even though the leader of the football team was himself black -- just as the captain of the basketball was white. It was just another one of those odd contradictions that Spencer couldn't get her head around. And it was backed up by the slutty brainlessness of the cheerleading squad. They sat on the bleachers with their glossy pompoms and batons, debating between them which of those jocks were the hottest. Those that had boyfriends amongst them immediately stood by their men', jockeying in favor of their spouses. The only element of that that Spencer welcomed was that those same cheerleaders wouldn't be in the cafeteria -- no snide comments that way.

Though she didn't intend to stay there long. Like always Spencer tried to make her stop at the cafeteria a quick one. It was a place of social gathering for the tribes that the student body consisted of -- it could be as awkward as the locker rooms. There was nothing more embarrassing than sitting at a table in the cafeteria alone. And essentially all that loudness, all that laughter, all that talk, all those friends; the culmination of it just reminded Spencer of her isolation. It was something she didn't care to be reminded of. So when she pushed through its glassy and metallic doors and her ears were consumed by its noise, she didn't even bother to scan the tables to see if one was free. She only walked to the lengthy line and grabbed one of the shoddily cleaned brown lunch trays from a stack of them. Spencer queued up behind one of the shaggy-haired stoners, holding up her tray and hoping that the kids around her were too wrapped up in their own lives to address her. It appeared she'd be granted that as the line started to move along. When she came to the glass screens that shielded off the mildly warmed junk food -- pizza slices, French fries, cheeseburgers, etc, one of the jowl-laden middle-aged lunch ladies greeted her, complete with disinterested tones.

"What can I get you?" She garbled indifferently.

Spencer tried to speak up over the noise in the background. "Can I have a tuna sandwich please? And maybe an apple?"

With her tongs, the lunch lady clasped one of each and dropped them onto her tray, then gestured for her to move along so that she could serve someone else. Spencer moved along and at the end of the line, where she was given a choice between a glass of water, a carton of milk and a can of soda for a beverage, she chose the glass of water. She paid for it afterward and then quickly made her way out of the cafeteria. She didn't like eating in there now and she wasn't planning on changing that any time soon. The girl exited that hall and walked out into the grassy fields that surrounded this building, those that were far removed from the football fields. This was where she liked to eat. Only a few people ever came out here and most of the time they were quiet, never bothering her. And on beautiful days like this, with cerulean skies, pearly clouds and a dazzling sun to bask under, there was no greater alternative for her.

Spencer sat down and, for once, tried not to think about the event' of last week, or her status as a social pariah. She merely made a quiet nibble of her tuna sandwich and sipped periodically from her glass of water. She was relatively calm like that. And after a few minutes it seemed like the world would peacefully pass her by like this. Yet only a few moments after that she heard an amused baritone voice say to her, "Nice day, isn't it?"

Spencer glanced up; expecting to be addressed by some jock, only to find a teacher -- and one of the few that she honestly could say that she liked here at Alderson High School. Relatively speaking, Mr. Stephens was the complete opposite of someone like Mrs. Swirlin. He was young, male, and black, as opposed to old, female and white, and he was also quite liberal in nature. He taught cultural studies and Western philosophy, optional classes the latter of which Spencer herself was in. Kids at school liked him a lot, mostly because he was lenient and laidback, but also because of his weird ability to empathize. It was like he could tell what you were thinking just by looking at you.

Mr. Stephens pulled a small smile and kneeled down beside Spencer as she sat, legs folded underneath her.

"Gets a bit noisy in there, doesn't it?"

He didn't even have to gesture to the cafeteria for her to know that was what he was talking about. "Yes. I like it out here more."

"I hear you," The older man shut his eyes and sniffed in the fragrance of the grass, freshly cut. "Such a beautiful day out here as well. I wish more of you kids would enjoy it. Oh, and by the way, I read your Sartre report last night. I have to say, it was pretty good."

Spencer smiled with a little embarrassment. She'd never been one to know how to take compliments. "...Thanks, Mr. Stephens. I don't really know much about Existentialism, but..."

"Not many people do, Spencer. But I was impressed with the effort you put in."

She was also thankful for the fact that she handed it in a fortnight ago. If she had written in within the past week it would have been utter crap, that's how skewered her focus was. Thinking about that caused her smile to drop. And Mr. Stephens, ever a man of empathy, took notice.

"...Look. Spencer. If ever you need to talk about anything, my door is always open."

She clammed up again. "...I... I'm fine, Mr. Stephens."

He didn't look convinced but he didn't push any further than that. He merely stood back up, rearranged the term papers in his arms, and gave her a parting wave. "Well, as long as you're okay, you do what you feel like doing, I'm off to finish marking all this. You wouldn't believe the crap some of these idiots throw at me. Unfortunately, they can't all be as talented as you are, kid. I'll catch you later, huh?"

Spencer nodded to him as he walked off toward the gravel footpath that curved around the grass fields. Once he was gone she realized that his concern for her just brought up whatever feelings she had been hoping to suppress here. And with that her thoughts turned to the only other sanctuary she had at this school. That was the library. It was the one place you could honestly not expect to run into any cheerleader, jock or trendy: a demilitarized zone, Rhineland worthy. She finished up what was left of her tuna sandwich, ate her apple, and gulped down her water. Then

Spencer went into the cafeteria one last time to drop off the tray, quickly making her exit a few seconds afterward. The unassuming girl crossed across campus and entered the southern building, turned a left at the main corridor, and went up the steps of a nearby stairwell to reach the double doors of the library on the fourth floor.

As soon as she pushed in she smiled privately at the scene inside. Quietness. Everyone was quiet, the few people there were either seated or scanning the bookshelves for an obscure tome to read or study from. She liked it here. It was her speed, the speed she was accustomed to. It was one of the few places she could relax. Now that she was here Spencer pulled her backpack off her shoulder and walked right into the second of the three large rooms that made up the library. It held a multitude of small, private stalls for personal study. Fortunately they were all empty so she had her pick of them. Spencer chose one at the back, closest to the rearmost window. She took a seat inside its three walls and set her bag down. After a calming breath she removed her copy of Jean-Paul Sartre's Being and Nothingness from it. It was the text there were to be working out of for her Western Philosophy classes this week. Though they were only to read the introductory chapter (The Pursuit of Being) for now, it was still quite a tricky read, and because of that it was easy to see why Western Philosophy was an extra-curricular subject -- it wasn't something that everyone would gravitate to. But in a way, this was the perfect thing to get Spencer's mind off of what had happened to her last week. Just a quiet read of chapter she'd discuss in class afterschool tomorrow. And so she tried to read. Less than nine minutes later, whilst trying to read, a shadow was cast over her body. "I knew you'd be here."

Spencer's body tensed into rigidity at that voice. She'd know that voice from anywhere. That was the voice that growled with voluptuous zeal as its owner had had her way with her. But Spencer didn't dare stand up and look back to see her face -- she didn't need to. She'd seen that face every minute of every hour of the past seven days. But when she didn't make the first move the woman behind her did it in her place, reaching out and running her hands through Spencer's jaw-length ashy blonde hair. She reflexively flinched, not knowing how to respond, as the other girl slowly ran her hands through the strands of her hair with possessive, petting strokes.

Spencer bit her lip after whispering, "Ashley, please..."

"I miss you..." she leaned in and whispered into Spencer's ear."I've been fantasizing about you all week..."

"...Please..." a whimper escaped Spencer as Ashley's petting of her hair descended into a tender caress at the nape of her neck. Her touch was so soft, yet Spencer knew from experience how powerful those hands of hers could be. "Please don't do this to me here..."

Soon Ashley's willowy voice went husky with arousal. "Why...? There's nobody around..."

Spencer bit her pink lower lip again. Once words became memories Ashley's hands slowly slid their way down her lissome back. She tightened up. Without looking back Spencer could tell that Ashley was grinning vividly at the power she had over her. It was a thing of magic, this attraction. It left a normally intelligent young woman powerless in the face of someone's overwhelming sexuality. Spencer felt the force of that as Ashley's hands slipped down toward the band of her denim jeans skirt.

"Please don't'..." She struggled to say.

The slightly older girl chuckled a little. "...Stand up and turn around, Spencer."

She cooperated without even considering an alternative. The blonde stood up slowly and turned around at the same speed, almost nervous at the prospect of seeing her again. But she did. And all the feelings she had been trying to belligerently suppress thus far came roaring back with twice the vigor.

Her name was Ashley Davies.

Spencer, brought face to face with this taller, confident, omnipresent being, couldn't help but admire her with desperation and passion. She was a tall girl, even by the standards of a senior. She was only less than half an inch shorter than most guys at Alderson High School. And she definitely carried herself with the swagger of one. There was a tomboyish edge to her, at least in terms of her interests and domineering attitude, although she was actually very pretty, almost strikingly so. Her wavy black hair climbed down as far as her shoulders, swinging about the back of her tank top, which held back her sizeable and beautifully sculpted breasts. Her body was so lithe and tight, her thighs toned and yet shapely, a likely nod to her athletic pastimes. But it was her face that stood so threatening and engaging to Spencer. Ashley's visage was one pretty enough to be a model, her heavy bangs and cocky smile framing her face, but that was added to by a insatiable, almost arrogant self-confidence that was completely and utterly demonstrated by her caramel brown eyes. Her body reeked of it but her eyes confirmed it. Ashley was the kind of girl that was willing to do anything once and was more than willing to take on anyone who got in the way of her doing it. Every time Spencer looked into her eyes she saw that confidence for herself. She wanted to bathe herself in it, live within it, mask herself in it. With that self assurance and those incredible looks (looks that she had inherited from her Italian-American mother) Spencer found herself unable to resist her.

Even now, Spencer stood paralyzed before her -- even though the hardening of her nipples and the rush of heat and fluid between her legs, as well as a demanding voice in the back of her head, were all telling her to beg this superior woman to ravish her.

Somehow, however, her sensibilities had managed to keep Spencer afloat. "...Ashley, I... I want to study..."

Instantly she ignored that and dragged Spencer into an embrace. The smaller girl gasped briefly before Ashley grasped at her hips and held her in place. Those powerful brown eyes stared deep into Spencer's own, displaying the wanton, carnal lust Ashley was no doubt feeling. For the life of her, Spencer had never understood what it was that Ashley saw in her, but that fact was of so little importance when they exchanged glances like this.

And all of a sudden Spencer realized she was being sucked in again. She couldn't allow that, not this time.

"...I can't do this..." She said softly, tearing her eyes away. "...Please let me go."

Ashley's smile fell a bit. "I know that's not what you want."

"Ashley, please-"

But Spencer was cut off. A second later she yelped with surprise when Ashley literally forced her up against the left wall of the compartment and pinned her there, hands up above her head. Whatever protest she tried to summon up was muffled when Ashley plunged down and cogently pressed her lips against Spencer's. She sobbed openly as the intense rush of arousal that consumed her from the action, her fists clenching and unclenching. Ashley growled a dominant moan into their kiss, prizing her lips open and tilting her head to the left, just to allow herself to shove her tongue past her meek lover's mouth. Spencer was rendered powerless again, this time physically rather than mentally. She barely even noticed when Ashley kicked her feet apart with one of her own -- she only did with the thigh of that leg pushed authoritatively between her hips.

That broke Spencer out of her momentary blindsiding. She desperately broke the kiss, gasping for breath, and pressed her small hands against the taller girl's chest. "Ashley stop, please! I-I can't do this here...!"

She grinned a little. "But you want to, right?"

Spencer said nothing.

"Spencer?"

She swallowed. "...Look. What happened last week... it's... it's not going to happen ever again. I... I don't want it to."

That one took the smile off of Ashley's face. "What about what I want?"

"...Please let me go."

"Look, don't be like that. I know you want me. I know you want this," Ashley's eyes searched out Spencer's for a reply. When she didn't get one she sighed and tried a different approach. "Why don't you meet me afterschool, come for a little drive with me, yeah? We'll talk about it."

Spencer hazarded a glance at her. "...Just... to talk, right?"

"Yeah."

She was willing to believe her. Then again, Ashley could convince her to do anything with those hypnotic eyes...

"...Okay."

...No matter how much of a mistake it would eventually turn out to be.

--

Characters belong to Tom Lynch and story belongs to my friend Chris Angel and if you would like to read the original story here is the site to go to - - nifty(dot)org -- rest pointer over GENERAL ARCHIVE -- click on LESBIAN -- click on HIGH SCHOOL-- scroll down once and click on my-girl-is-my-poison/ i must warn you that this is an adult site