Part 1 My First Time

My name is Hettie, and I live on the east side of Pretoria, South Africa. I am fit and healthy, with brown eyes and brown hair. I am a maths teacher at high school level. I am married to a handsome man who always listens to me and takes care of me.

I grew up in a conservative family where obedience and humility were most cherished. My mother, an unsentimental but extremely kind lady, had some principles to live by that I was forced to follow blindfolded. My dad was the epitome of everything good. Their authority was such that even in the current day, being an adult, I would wear clothes covering my whole body, not so much to please them as such, but due to habit second nature to me.

I married my husband Daniel at university. He was reading law with a so lovely mind and so gentle heart. He pierced humility shells and saw the fire within me. He never tried to mend me but urged me to stretch up to my limits. We shared a sanctuary of respect and love in the marriage form and a home where I could slowly unfold my wings.

I was grading papers late one evening, and I came across an underground website recounting a hidden gentleman's club seemingly present in the city. The idea was whorish and mad, and it was a departure from my humble, shy existence up to that time. Daniel was at some late business lunch, and there was eerily no noise in the house. I wanted to know more, the urge devouring my restraint. I was surfing the net for the address of the club, my heart racing.

Sense and sensibility, I did actually go to the club. I slumped back into the baggy shirt and the most 'un-Hettie' jeans I ever did wear. I kept telling myself repeatedly it was research, an observation of a way of life that existed outside of my clean bubble. It was creepy driving to the club, every streetlamp casting shadows threatening me with the filthy ride in store. The neon sign on the corner of the alleyway flashed, 'The Vixens' Lair'. I was a filthy Cinderella, racing along with my heart pounding as I entered the parking lot.

I was scared enough to remain in the car. My forehead against the door, a sweat sheen on my forehead. How would Daniel react? My mother? The possibility of their anger being disappointed felt like a knife in my ribs. But the dizzying words of the blog whirled in my ears, a siren's call increasing every second.

Someone who was familiar walked by my car. It was Laura Jenkins, the librarian, and she smiled to herself as she came towards me. She was transformed, her hair loose and a glint in her eye that I had never seen before. "Hi Hettie," she said softly, and her voice sent shivers down my spine. "Come on in The Vixens' Lair. You're going to have a good time here." I didn't have any choice but to comply with her, a thrill of terror and excitement running through my veins.

The club was dim inside with the thudding rhythm of music that seemed to pulse from the walls themselves. Men danced on poles, their muscles strained and their sweat shining in the fluorescent lights. They wore next to nothing, mocking the famished stares of the women in the audience. Laura sat me down at a table where some of my teachers were already sitting, sipping cocktails and giggling like naughty schoolgirls. To see them here, at this whorehouse, was shocking and comforting in a strange sort of way.

I preceded the team with my heart pounding frantically as Laura pulled a chair back for me. Teachers looked at me in surprise and expectation, their expressions informing me that they had been waiting for me to arrive at their secret gathering. Laura stepped up beside me and whispered in my ear, "You'll love our little secret." The smell of her perfume and aroma of the club mixed to add to the intoxication.

I looked around and saw a beautiful woman and saw that she was the same woman who was following the yoga class. She was powerful, movements against the power of gravity. For one moment, her eyes met with mine, and nodded her head in gratitude in my direction. Air was full of passion and liberty that I never experienced before in my life. Laura placed a cocktail against my hand, its vibrant color reflecting the atmosphere of the club.

Andrea, whom I met taking my yoga class, would become one that I would come to know. A sly glint in her eyes, and there was no mistake about it after she and her boyfriend were bare kissing some of the male strippers. Something that would make me sick was something that I would have rather had happen, but instead got something out of it. There was a warmth that ran through my blood, something that was near and exciting. The strippers were having sex with them openly, shamelessly.

My. The teachers, half naked, cheeks flaming with lust but streaked with a tinge of shame. But the longer I watched, the more I understood this was not about sex. This was all about shedding the shackles of our ordinary existence, shedding our inhibitions. I sensed the twinkle in their eyes, the uninhibited laughter for the first time in the staff room ever. They were alive.

A man with the body sculpted out of a Greek god came onto the stage. He scanned the room with his intense eyes, and as soon as he saw mine, I was struck by lightning. He possessed a certain animal's beauty with the way he moved that made my spine tingle. He resembled a bit of a tired and older version of one of my students. I had never thought of one of my students in this manner, but here, in these circumstances, all propriety rules were put aside.

When he danced up to our table, my heart was pounding. His dance was designed to drive the women mad, and it was succeeding. The instructors on either side of me were getting frantic, leaning out to reach him, and I couldn't help but reach out too. When he bent down, whispering in Laura's ear, she laughed and nodded and then glanced over at me. She winked and was suddenly whisked out onto the stage by the dancer. The cold of the metal pole against my skin made me shiver. The lights dazzled, the music thunderous. He whirled about me, hands following the curves of my wrapped form, outlining the shape below. I was a moth to fire, propriety abandoned as his warmth and beat surrounded me. The crowd and judges urged us forward with shouts and applause.

He breathed into my ear, hot sweet breath pouring in like shockwaves, "Take off my jockstrap." Velvet softness of his voice.

I looked over at Laura, and her eyes were shining with excitement. She nodded encouragingly, and to my surprise, I found myself obeying, shivering as I pulled on the elastic band. As I pulled it down, the fabric opened, and his granite-hard cock leapt into sight, standing and rigid. The world whirled around me as I stared at the sight, the roar of the crowd receding. He swooped whipped cream and spread it over his granite-hard cock, coating the head and down the length. He wrapped my head with a towel, and spanked me to lean forward and lick it all off. It was salty and sweet, rich blend of the whipped cream and his masculine scent. My mouth watered, and I couldn't help but wet my lips.

My whole face was wrapped with the towel, but I could feel the eyes of the teachers on me, cutting through me. He grasped my hand and placed it upon his cock, rubbing it for me as he was washed. It was an ancient dance, a dance of submission and seduction, and I was the one in charge. He took the towel and positioned me into my chair, not once breaking the gaze. I was wet between my legs, a shattering of the desires that I had so long withheld.

Laura slapped a napkin across my face with a smug grin. "You're a natural," she stated, half marvelling, half awed. The other instructors bowed their heads and spoke to one another in hushed tones, and I felt a weird feeling of pride and guilt. The rest of the night was a haze of sensuality and liberation. The men on stage grew wilder with each performance, their routines more explicit and inciting. I was swept up in the rhythm, my hips swaying in my seat as I sat there. The women to either side of me gasping and whispering at the strippers as they screwed them filled my head, a sensual fog of pleasure. The next thing I knew, it was time to go, and the reality of what I had done hit me like a ton of bricks. My heart was racing with excitement and fear as I got up to go. Laura noticed how distressed I was and talked to me softly, "Don't worry, Hettie, this is the beginning."

I was unable to shake from my mind as I walked home the sense that I'd passed a point of no return.

The night had been a blur of sensory input, and it was in shock that I pulled into my own driveway, the quietness of the subdivision a shock.

The house was black and I crept in, creeping in like a teenager creeping in after a night of defiance. I took off my clothes slowly, the fabric of my dress tacky with a mixture of sweat and dirt from the club atmosphere. My mind was whirling with the sights and sounds of the evening, remembering things I never could have dreamed of being a part of. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, trying to find some trace of the 'good girl' that I had ever been. The woman standing before her, glaring, was starving, gaunt, and ruthless.

I moistened my lips, remembering the feel of the dancer's dick, the whipped cream still between my lips. I had stirred a sleeping beast, and I didn't know if I could silence it again. I took a shower, the hot water sluicing away the tackiness of the club from my body but not the memories. I washed myself raw, trying to wash away the pictures which circulated in my head in a mindless loop.

The harder I pushed them away, the more they stuck. My hand fell between my thighs, heat and moisture a bitter reminder of the fire that had been kindled inside me. I couldn't help but masturbate, my own hand a poor replacement for the hardness of the dancer's cock. I came home, the excitement a guilty one that did nothing to but fuel the fire of my curiosity even further. I lay in bed, Daniel's arm across me, breathing deep and serene. I lay there gazing up at the ceiling, my heart racing as I attempted to justify the smell of the club on me like a second layer of skin.

The bed had been too small, too confining for the storm of feelings that raged inside me. The walls in our bedroom had shut in too tight, suffocating in familiarity. I had to get out to the club, to be able to be someone else, to be dumb and stupid. I was roused the next morning by the smell of coffee and Daniel rummaging the kitchen. I slipped on a robe and went downstairs, fighting to lose the haze of last night.

He grinned at me with his soft kindness, not sensing the whirlwind of emotions and ideas that brewed underneath. "How was your night?" he said, pressing a steaming cup into my hands. I drank, the warmth not able to calm my frazzled nerves. "Nothing but a late night of grading," I fibbed, my voice shaking in a half-hearted whisper. On a daily basis, the goings-on of the Vixens' Lair appeared to have a life of their own, haunting my fantasies and nightmares. I'd catch myself daydreaming at school, the sensation of the dancer's cock in my hand, the scent of the whipped cream, and the flavor of his body.

The routine of algebra and calculus was bland in contrast to the lifestyle I had after visiting the nightclub on a regular basis. The student stripper impersonator was not helping, every step he took bringing me back to that scorching evening. And there was the Tuesday yoga class, the same yoga class where I caught a glimpse of Andrea, the nightclub chick. She winked at me as we transitioned into downward dog, her long body stretching like a cat. Flashbacks of her striptease act and the way the strippers handled her body were exchanged between us, and I enjoyed this strange feeling of camaraderie.

The rest of the class was strained, my mind a tapestry of what had happened on that evening and what lay ahead. When the class at last came to an end and we were folding up our mats, she walked over to me. "Hello, I am Andrea," she said, her throaty purr of a voice resonating through the silence of the room. "We never got a chance to talk the other night." My face was burning, and I could not think of anything to say, sounding like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. "I-I liked the show," I stammered, my gaze darting about the room as if searching for an escape route.

Andrea stepped in, her breath tracing along the rim of my ear. "You had too much fun," she whispered, grinning inwardly with a mischievous flick of her lips. "Want to ride over on my bike and get a smoothie?" I nodded, shocked by the seriousness of her proposition. The rest of the yoga class vanished, and we two were alone in the room, bound together by a thread of mutual longing. Exiting the studio, she puts her arm around my shoulders and pushes me into a shop across the street. We exchanged platitudes, work and weather.

We were two magnets, each drawn a little bit closer to the other with each passing second.

She gazed at me with a directness that left me feeling seen, as if she pierced the layers of propriety I'd constructed so carefully. We were standing outside, sunlight squeezing through and back out again from under the umbrella overhead. Her scent drifted between us, a mixture of spice and sugar that left me dizzier and dizzier with each breath. She showed me the lifestyle of her open marriage to her husband, a man in complete awareness of her infidelity. She mentioned the excitement of the unknown, the forbidden. Her voice was the description of a world foreign to mine.

A world in which passion and desire were lived rather than repressed. With every swallow of our smoothies, the air between us was heavy with heft, the air around us tasting of unspoken tension. Andrea leaned in close, her voice a whisper of secrets. "I wrote a few of my escapades on Literotica, an erotic story site on the web. I noticed the flash of interest in your eye that night. You are not just curious, Hettie, but ravenous for more." My face burned red, the words hanging between us like a threat of violence against the life I'd known.

The doorbell above the café door clattered as I pushed it open, and a blast of wind sent our napkins skittering across the table. We sat in silence sipping the remains of our glasses, her words repeating in my mind. She dipped into her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, scribbling a sequence of letters: her username.

"Read my stories," she commanded, trace of a smile. "You'll know what you're feeling." And she was gone, leaving me to ponder the implication of her invitation. I didn't read them, afraid of what I would find. But curiosity overcame me, and before I ever lay down to sleep that night, I had already typed her screen name, Andrea_Meyer, into the search box.

Her stories were sensual, of meetings with men, naked and unapologetic trysts. So unlike the stodgy life I lived. Each sentence a siren's call, beckoning me further into a decadent life that was not mine to live. To consider bringing such actions to Daniel filled me with a shudder and a disgust. I could feel the walls of our marriage creaking, straining to hold new desire.

And the daydreams started. With the others, I was back at the Vixens' Lair again, its cruelty causing me to scream in torment and beg for pity. But in my own daydreams, I was dancing with the boys, swiveling my hips in motions my mother would have died of shame to witness and the crowd's roar satisfying my starving desire for more. One of the night's tricks was to have one stripper whose face was Andries', his body a lean athletic plane for my new lust to have free rein to roam upon, his dance sensual teasing me. His running of his hand over my tits, his licking of his fingers along the rim of my neck, dirty talking in my ear like I was some dirty whore. His hands on my skirt, grinding my wet pussy, then he would shove his dick in me, fucking me hard on the teacher's desk.

Fantasy turned into reality when I started to see Andries differently during school hours. His young energy seemed to resonate with sensual appeal, and when our eyes would lock, I would feel the echoes of my fantasies in the classroom. I'd sit in class daydreaming about there being a reach of those firm arms, pulling me to the back of the classroom, where he would fuck me beside the whiteboard. It was such a forbidden fantasy that just thinking about it made me warm and moist.

He must have picked up on the fact that something was developing. Andries' eyes in class became more inquiring by the day. The way he leaned over my desk to seek advice, the way his hand rested over mine, sent shivers down my spine. Did he have any clue about my midnight visits to the Vixens' Lair? Did he have any clue about the fantasies ripping through my mind, leering at him? I was a teenage girl with a crush, but the crush was on a student, and the fantasies weren't rated PG.

The front row seats were never taken because students always filled the room from the back. He would take a seat in the front row, right in front of my desk. The way he spread himself over the seat with his legs open wide was how you could tell that he knew what he was doing. His hand would make its way down, and I'd see him jerking his dick off in his pants. My heart was racing, my face was burning, and I was attempting not to lean across and touch him. It was a nice, dirty torture that was making me twist in my seat.

The dreams were just unacceptable. They got worse every night. I needed to do something, kill the beast that had been awakened within me. I attempted not to view Andrea's and other individuals' profiles on the website. There was nothing to hold it back. The images seared themselves into my mind, and the pain underneath was a steady presence in the back of my head a reminder of the new hunger in me. My husband couldn't please me anymore. He was too predictable, too accustomed to it, and finished too quickly too often so that I hardly even got wet anymore. I was starving for more, starving to be burned up and wasted.

I began attending yoga again in hopes of finding a sense of calm in the quietness of the practice. Walking into the studio and spotting Andrea immediately had all of the memories of the club and blog come rushing back. Her friendly smile and utilization of her form in executing the poses did nothing except fan the fires of passion that burned inside me.

She accompanied me out of class. "How have you been, Hettie?" she whispered. "I've noticed something different about you." Her eyes probed mine, and I knew that she could sense the war that was raging inside of me.

"Listen, I have to talk to you, can you remain after class?" I whispered to Andrea. She nodded, her eyes knowing. We sat in the same coffee shop where she had told me about her open marriage. The sun had yielded to evening shade and coolness.

Her books were my lifeline, my introduction to a world of passion I had not known. I'd read them all, every steaming page. "I just can't get it out of my head," I confessed, shaking. "It's all I can think about, even at school." I told her about my daydreams and about Andries driving me crazy.

Andrea's eyes blazed with excitement. "You're ready," she whispered, drinking wine. "Ready for what?" I asked, fearfully, hopefully. She leaned over me, her warm breath on my face. "Ready to explore the dark side of your desire," she whispered. "Ready to unbind the chains that have bound you so long."

I swallowed, the words gagging in my throat. "What do you mean?"

Andrea leaned back in her chair, her eyes on me. "I think it is time you learned to accept your own nature, Hettie. To reveal the peaks of your sexuality without fear and without shame." Her voice was a siren's song, a call to her that I could not resist, like a moth to flame. "You don't have to do it alone," she continued, her hand reaching out to ring mine. "I can accompany you on the journey."