*** One ***
She was thirteen when it started. That's when she found the large leather glove in the mall. Something drew her to it, as if it were reaching out to her. She touched it briefly, and it seemed still warm and alive. For the next two hours in the mall, she would walk by it, again and again, constantly checking to see if someone claimed it. But no one did. It remained like an orphan, waiting to be adopted. Then, after looking around, she took it and stuffed it into her purse.
Back home, she held it in her hands, rubbing her fingertips over the dark tanned calfskin. And the smell! There was something about the smell of it. She would try to imagine the man who wore the glove as she ran it through her fingers, and brought it to her face.
Then there was the news of the burglar. Many of the homes in the town where she lived had been broken into, their owners finding just one or two items stolen. People whispered – especially her mother and the other women – about what this burglar might do if he found one of them there, alone in the house ...
Maggie wondered, too. Often late at night, in bed, one hand holding the leather glove to her face, she wondered if the burglar would come into their house when she was alone, her parents out playing bridge or something. She imagined being helpless, the burglar caressing her, laughing softly as he took her.
Whenever she confessed this to the priest, he would tell her not to be afraid, that the police would catch this criminal soon. How could she explain that this wasn't some fear that popped into her head, that she willfully brought these thoughts about, that she
wanted
to be taken, to tremble as the burglar's leather gloves touched her? She couldn't even explain it to herself.
The break-ins stopped. Maybe the guy had been caught on some other charge, or moved somewhere else. It didn't matter. Maggie's mother and the other women in their town were breathing easier. The trinkets he'd stolen had all been insured, and the claims settled. So everything was back to normal.
Except when Maggie went to bed, taking that leather glove from her night stand, holding it to her face, her thoughts drifting to that fantasy, ...
*** Two ***
College was liberating for Mags. It helped that she drew attention so easily – tall, with light complexion and classic features, her sorrel hair frequently tied back. Courses and classes opened her mind to new ideas, and she enjoyed socializing and making new friends in the dorms and all over campus, and especially the attention of young men. One in particular made her feel very special, a musician named Brent. He was gentle and warm, with a quiet sense of wit. Mags loved how he could make her laugh, and also relax. The night they first made love was like floating on a calm sea in the tropics. She never thought of it as "losing her virginity" but of gaining in intimacy and sensuality.
Then
it
came back.
She didn't know what brought it back. It wasn't that she didn't like sleeping with Brent, even though it seemed to become all too familiar. Maybe it was seeing that movie with Jodie Foster as a rape victim, although that was nothing like her fantasy. But her fantasy did come back, arousing her as before, and she wasn't sure why or what to do about it.
"I think I'm going nuts," Mags told the Psych Services counselor, feeling her legs shaking. She told her more, and wondered why it was happening. The counselor simply smiled and said that everyone has fantasies, even wild ones like hers, and it didn't mean she was going crazy or missing something. Mags kept pressing with her questions, until finally the counselor let loose a gasp of exasperation. "Maybe you just want your boyfriend to be more assertive."
Bullshit, Mags thought. Brent was just assertive enough. She didn't need him to take charge like some macho guy, ordering for her in restaurants and all that. But, in bed, ...
One night, while they were alone, she couldn't stand it. As he kissed her and held her close, she pushed him off of her. "What's wrong?" he asked.
She looked at him for a long time without speaking, and he repeated the question, caressing her face. She swallowed hard, and placed her hands over her head. "Hold my hands down," she said. Brent looked at her with his mouth open, then placed one hand on each of her wrists. He began to kiss her, and she turned away. "No. Look at me."
"Mags, what's going on?"
"Please. Look at me, even if I look away."
"But – "
"Please!"
He bit his lips, then did as she asked, pushing on her hands, pushing into her, as she imagined him with a mask and gloves, closing her eyes and imagining being forced. She squirmed about, moaning and showing her pleasure, trying to resist the even greater pleasure of showing resistance.
When Brent was finished, and they curled up and cuddled, he asked her what that was about. "Later," was all she could murmur. And she had no idea of how to tell him.
Over the next couple of weeks, he kept bringing it up, and she kept putting off talking to him about it. Finally, he sat her down and insisted on knowing what was up.
"I just wanted to try something different," she blurted.
"Yeah, but ... why
that
?"
She shuddered, folding her arms over her stomach and bowing her head. "Okay," she squeaked, "but you can't tell anyone!" When he promised, she told him all about it – and her growing desire to live out the fantasy. Now it was his turn to tremble.
There was a tense silence between them for a while, until a week before spring break. Brent asked her: "Do you really want to do this fantasy thing?"
She hesitated. "Why?"
He took out a packet – plane tickets, car rental agreement, and description of a bungalow on an island in the Florida Keys – and described the plan. They would fly to Miami, drive to the bungalow, and one of the nights they were there, he would play the intruder and they would act out her fantasy. Mags could feel her heart pounding. She looked into his eyes, and kissed him deeply.
They flew out a week later, and drove that first night down the Keys. From the porch of the bungalow, there were no other signs of civilization. The next morning, they went over the plan: each night, Brent would leave Mags alone in the bungalow, and either sleep on the beach in his sleeping bag, or come in dressed as a burglar to take her. Every night, she waited with more and more anticipation. And every night, she fell asleep alone.
Their last day, Brent apologized. He couldn't bring himself to do it. She would hold him, and say it was all right. Too much to ask for, she thought. When they came back to school, things seemed to be back to normal. By summer, though, they had broken up, and while Brent never brought it up, Mags always wondered.
The rest of her time in college, she drifted in and out of hook-ups and short-lived relationships. She focused more on her studies, on finding a major, first choosing English Lit, then switching to Business. But she never forgot Brent, the excitement of waiting for him to take her, ...
*** Three ***
The confessional was pitch black. She always wondered: was this what Hell was like?
The small sliding door on the other side of the grille whisked open, wood clacking against wood. Light filtered through the grille, white with a tint of orange. She couldn't see the priest, but she knew he was there.
Margaret crossed herself as she began: "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession."
"Tell me of your sin, my child." The words were automatic.
How could she put this? After two decades, she still had difficulty. "Ummm, ... lustful thoughts. I keep having these ... " She stopped, took a deep breath, and tried to begin once more. "I keep fantasizing about ... "
Here we go again.
"Go on," the priest said gently.
"I think about a man coming into my house."
"A particular man? Someone you know?"
"No, no one in particular. I can't see his face. But, I think about a man coming into my house and ... taking me."
