"Your mothers are nice," he said. His voice sounded different to himself, louder, amplified. He wondered if Penelope noticed any difference.
She nodded. "They are. Mostly. But sometimes they're a little strange."
He chuckled. "I'll give you that one."
They were sitting close on the bench, and Penelope drew closer. Their hands, lying flat on the stone, were almost touching. Dion put his fingers over hers and was surprised at their warmth. He leaned to the left until their shoulders were pressed together. Not knowing what to say, not knowing if he should say anything, he put his arm around her and pulled her to him. He licked his lips to moisten them, then-bent down to kiss her.
She was ready, and she moved up to meet him. Lips parted, tongues met, and Dion felt an immediate reaction stirring between his legs. The kissing grew more passionate. Their mouths pressed harder together, their tongues intertwining.
Dion pulled back. "Are your ... can your, uh, mothers see us here?"
Penelope reached around his neck. "No," she said. "Besides, they trust me."
Dion felt her tongue slide deeply into his mouth, and he tentatively reached around her to cup her right breast in his hand. It was small but firm, and he could feel the raised bump of her nipple. She did not push his hand away but instead leaned into him. He began massaging her, his fingers moving in slow circles, and he felt her body stiffen imperceptibly.
His hand worked its way down to her pants.
This time she tried to push him away. "No!" she said, but the word was muffled in their kiss.
Dion ignored her protestation, slipped the fingertips of his left hand beneath the waistband of her jeans, touched the cool silk of panties.
She pulled away. "No," she said firmly, removing his hand from her waist.
"Okay," he said, withdrawing. His face was hot and he was breathing heavily. "I'm sorry." His words were apologetic, but he was aware that his tone was not. Part of him was embarrassed, embarrassed at what he had tried, more embarrassed that he had been rebuffed. But another, deeper, more frightening part was angry, angry at her rejection, angry at her attitude, angry at her. He wanted to hit her, wanted to hurt her, wanted to feel the warm giving elasticity of her skin as he struck her face, wanted to slap her across the mouth until her blood ran, wanted to throw her down on the hard stone fence and take her now by force as she screamed in pain and fear and longing.
He realized that his fists were clenched, and he unclenched them. He shook his head to clear it.
What was happening to him?
Penelope stood up, straightened her hair and her T-shirt. "It's getting late," she said.
Dion nodded, and the two of them walked back inside.
All of the mothers walked with them to the door to say good-bye. Dion thanked them for a wonderful time.
"Why don't you come back next Saturday?" Mother Janine asked sweetly as he took his keys out of his pocket.
He looked at Penelope, who looked away. "Okay," he said. "Thanks. I'd like that."
Penelope closed the door to the bathroom and locked it. She felt tike crying. Life was so unfair! She pulled down her pants and unrolled a foot or so of toilet paper, which she doubled and used to take out her maxi-pad. Why the hell did she have to have her period now? She wrapped up the pad and dumped it in the garbage.
She remembered the way Dion's hand had felt on her breast, the way his tongue had felt in her mouth, the way his erection had felt against her thigh. She had wanted him then, and when his fingers had slipped inside her pants she had wanted them to get in all the way, had wanted to feel his fingers touch her vagina.
Why had her period come now?
She looked down at the soak of red blood through white tissue paper.
Although she hated the fact that she had to have a period at all, hated the pain and discomfort, the accompanying pimples and mood swings, the blood itself didn't bother her. Of the entire ordeal, in fact, it was only the changing of the pads she enjoyed.
She saw a smear of crimson on the tip of her index finger, and she put it to her nose. The blood smell made her invigorated, almost excited.
She felt like going out and raping Dion right now.
She sat down on the toilet, feeling a little lightheaded.
She shouldn't have touched that wine. It was making her behave strangely, making her think weird thoughts.
She stood, took out a new pad, affixed it to her panties. Before pulling them up, she breathed deeply, inhaling the musky fragrance. She touched her breast, remembering how Dion's hands had felt through the thin T-shirt cotton. For a moment there, when she had made him stop, it had seemed as though he had almost wanted to hit her, to force her to comply to his wishes.
And for a moment, a brief moment, she had wanted him to do just that.
Dion pressed down on the gas pedal as he drove away from the winery.
There was a burning in his crotch as he sped down the darkened rural road toward home, a painful aching that demanded to be released. He was hard, extraordinarily so, but there was no pleasure in it. Rather, the feeling was one of extreme discomfort. His penis seemed supremely sensitive, and each turn of the steering wheel caused his erection to chafe against his underwear. It hurt, but at the same time it made him stiffer.
The pressure on his penis increased as he pushed farther down on the gas pedal, hurrying, speeding up, desperately anxious to get home.
He thought of Penelope, thought of the way her panties had felt against his fingers, the cool silk and smooth skin soft to his touch.
His erection throbbed.
He couldn't take it anymore. He swerved off the side of The road, shoved the gear shift into Park, and fairly threw himself out of the car, leaving the engine running. He lurched into the bushes as he frantically unbuckled his belt, ripped open the button fly of his Levi's, and grasped his engorged organ. He held it hard and began pumping, his hand sliding quickly up and down the shaft.
He came almost immediately, a shower of thick, milky white semen falling on dirt and dead leaves.
He kept stroking his penis until it hurt, but he could not come again.
His erection, however, remained as hard as ever.
Oh, God, he thought. There really was something wrong with him. He needed some kind of help. Medical or psychological or both or ... He bent over and threw up into the bushes, his throat and stomach working in sickening tandem, clenching and unclenching until there was nothing left to disgorge.
He wiped his mouth and walked slowly back to the car, buttoning his pants, buckling his belt. He had not cried, had not felt like crying in ... he didn't know how long. Years, probably. But now he got into the car, locked the doors, made sure the windows were closed, and leaned his head against the steering wheel.
He sobbed like a baby.
"Miss. Daneam?"
Penelope turned around. Her eyes quickly scanned the crowded school hallway looking for the owner of the voice before locking on Mr.
Holbrook, standing in the open doorway of the teachers' lounge. He beckoned her over. She gave Vella a quick look of apology, then walked over to where the mythology teacher stood.
"Penelope," he said.
"Yes?"
"Penelope." He stretched the word out, rolled it on his tongue. "A good name. A classical name."
"Yes, I know. Penelope was Odysseus' wife." She looked impatiently back toward Vella.
"You wouldn't happen to know the origin of your last name, would you?"
She shook her head. "I'm afraid my family was never big on geneology."
"Were your ancestors Greek by any chance?"
She shrugged. "Why?"
"Oh, nothing. Just curious. The real reason I called you over is because I was wondering if you were related to the Daneams of Daneam Vineyards?"
She nodded. "It's my family's business."