Eliza

"You know who I think probably has some amazing stories?" said Joshua. "Eliza."

Eliza blushed. "Oh come on, Joshua. Not me."

"I know you are more than you let on. And I know you were in college, too."

Eliza blushed even more. "Oh boy. How am I more than I let on?" The moment she asked, she regretted asking.

Joshua said, "You play the quiet girl. You're not the quiet girl. Should I say anything more?"

"You're not the quiet girl?" asked Sandra. "We roomed together on road trips. You were totally the quiet girl."

Eliza was definitely the quiet girl right now. Joshua offered, "Are you a sound sleeper, Sandra?"

"Yeah."

"So maybe ... after you fell asleep ...?"

Sandra glared at Eliza. "What is this reputation?" She was awestruck.

Eliza laughed and if she could blushed even more, she would have. "Fine. Fine, Joshua -- okay. Oh wow, what am I doing. But fine." Eliza was tall, quite statuesque, but she did, in fact, play the quiet girl.

"Do you all remember Coach Morris?" A few of the men murmured in agreement. Morris was one of the assistant coaches for the men's team. He was known for being very hot headed, and would often be seen and heard screaming at players during practice for missing basic fundamental gameplay elements.

"He almost threw me off the team junior year," said Henry.

"He was really loud, that's most of what I remember," said Donnie. "I didn't like him."

"No one did," said Ben.

Everyone looked at Eliza. "Wait, what's this story going to be, Eliza?" said Olivia.

Eliza took a deep breath. "Senior year, we were doing that three game road trip right before the end of the season. Men's was already locked into a playoff spot. Women's needed to win two of three that weekend or we were out. We split the first two games, which meant we needed the third game."

"I remember those games," said Olivia. "You were a beast in that third one, Eliza. Many blocks, many saves, I don't know the stats, but you were awesome."

"Thanks, Liv. I did play well in that third game. But not in the second. We probably lost that second game because of me. I missed some easy spikes, I let one fall in when I thought it would go out. I always kept a cool head, you know, but that night, I was just furious with myself."

"I went to the hotel bar. I ordered a scotch. I was sitting there, drinking my scotch, when who should come sit next to me at the bar? Morris." Eliza sighed, unsure as to whether she wanted to continue, or whether she even remembered the details properly.

"'Shit game tonight,' he told me. I already felt like crap, you know, and I didn't need to get it from someone else. I didn't respond, I just finished my scotch and ordered another. Morris got another drink. I never liked him much to begin with, and I really didn't like him when he drank. He would get all monologue-y and talk like he knew everything and you knew nothing. I mean, I hadn't talked to him that much in the past, but, you know. I think freshman year, I asked him for some advice, and he was a jerk about it, and I probably just never forgave him."

"He didn't accept my silence as an indication that I wasn't in the mood, so in typical Morris fashion, he went on. 'It all turned on that second match point. I guess you could have shifted the momentum, but you blew that line play, and the team was just pfft, deflated.' I was super focused on not crying. I just drank my scotch. He sipped his beer. 'That second match point.'"

"I stayed silent, and so did he. I wanted to say something to him, let him know that calling me out for messing up a play wasn't going to do anything. It wouldn't change the outcome, and it wouldn't make me feel any better. But I didn't want to get into a fight."

"'You know, that line play, I think you could have made it if you knew your position better.' Like seriously, what the hell? He wasn't my coach, and he didn't know anything about what I knew of my position. I bent my head down, and broke into tears, which I worked to end quickly. But he saw me. 'Nah, what I mean is -- aw, shit. I didn't mind to sound like I thought you were -- oh, whatever. You're a good player. You don't get this far if you're not a good player.'"

"I regained my composure. But I ordered a third drink, so that was stupid. Morris was monologuing about my career and my future. I didn't care. I wasn't going to keep playing after college. He babbled about positions and floor plans and how to see the arc, and I just wanted to drink in peace. I never spoke to him at the bar. He kept going on, tried to engage the bartender in the discussion. I struggled through my third scotch, paid my tab, thanked the bartender, and walked out. I didn't even look at Morris. He watched me go, though. I know that."

"I was waiting by the elevator -- that was the slowest elevator ever. I kept jamming the button with my finger, and as I glanced over my shoulder, I saw that Morris was approaching. Oh god, we were going to have to share an elevator. We stepped in, and he went straight for the button panel. He pressed his floor, fourteen, and then asked me mine. I just looked at the floor, and mumbled, 'same floor.' He said something dumb about being neighbors, but I wasn't listening."

"Turns out we were neighbors. I had walked briskly from the elevator to get further away from him, but my drunken legs weren't helping me, and I stumbled against the wall. I found my way to 1411, waved my key at it, and the door just blinked red. My key was not working. Morris walked much slower, but he reached me. I thought it would be another monologue about hotels or keys or something. Instead, he waved his own key at 1409 -- right next door -- and went in."

"I tried my key another few times, then resigned myself to going down to the front desk. As I walked the hall, I heard a voice behind me. 'Hey,' it said. I turned, I think maybe hoping it was one of you. But it was Morris. He was standing in his doorway. 'You want to come in for a drink?'"

"The answer was no, I didn't. But I stopped, turned, and walked toward him. He ushered me into his room. We both sat on the couch. He poured something out of an unmarked bottle. I don't think I ever drank any of it. 'It's Eliza, right?' he asked. That was like the first normal thing he said. I nodded. 'I'm sorry about before. It's not your fault about the line play. I've seen you all work on your formations. You're being coached wrong.' He started acting out a set on the table using whatever objects were handy. A penny, a loose Advil, the corner of a torn magazine page. 'See, you should have been set here instead. You would have seen the ball about a half second sooner, and you'd have been able to move in time. You have quick feet, and you play smart defense.'"

"I shook my head. This was a different side of him. Not only did he know what he was talking about in terms of volleyball, but he knew me, he knew what kind of a player I was. He went on to demonstrate other defensive approaches and techniques. I started kind of sobering up. This was so totally my kind of topic, and he was actually really knowledgeable."

"He talked to me about defense for what could have been hours. I totally lost track of time. And I completely forgot that I still needed to get a new key to my room. I stood up, inching toward the door. 'Oh, it's so late, Eliza. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have kept talking.' I turned to him, and mumbled something about needing a new key. He said, 'you could just stay here?' It was kind of a ridiculous offer. The front desk wasn't that far away. But something in my mind was resistant to going back downstairs. He repeated what he said, with a different emphasis. 'You could just stay here.'"

"I froze in my tracks, and lowered my head. 'In fact,' he continued, 'you should just stay here.' I didn't move. I wasn't scared, and obviously if I wanted to leave, I was at the door, and I could just leave. But when he said that I should just stay there, a voice in my head agreed. I turned back to him, but didn't speak. 'Don't you think that's a good idea, Eliza? Staying here?' I don't know where this impulse came from, but I nodded. I wanted to stay."

"I walked back toward him. Quietly, and under his breath, his leaned into my ear and whispered, 'I will only say this once: the safeword is mandolin.' He stepped back away as if that had never happened. 'It's late, Eliza,' he said in his normal speaking voice. 'I'd like to help you get more comfortable.' He paused, I think waiting to see if I would accept or refuse. I didn't move. And I didn't say no. I'm telling you this story, and I want to be clear -- I never said no. Don't judge me, I never said no."

"He waited long enough for me to reject him, which I did not, and then he reached his hands out to my shirt. It was button-front, and he took hold of the top button, undoing it. He went to the next, and then the next. By now my shirt was very open. I have pretty large boobs, and there was a lot for him to see. He kept undoing buttons, and before long, my shirt was on the floor. I stood there in my bra and jeans. Then he said, 'I'm going to help you get more comfortable, Eliza.' He ushered me back to the couch where I had been sitting before. He sat across from me, as he had done before. He took my left leg -- which he had not done before, and stretched it across the table. He untied my shoe, and pulled it off. He then peeled off my sock. He did the same to my other leg, shoe, and sock. He then gestured for me to stand again. 'This will be easier if you stand against the wall.' He backed me up, and I was pressed against the wall by the door. He knelt down, unsnapped my jeans, lowered the zipper, and pulled my pants to the floor."

"His head was aligned with my panties. He said, 'I still think you need to get more comfortable, more relaxed.' Once again, I didn't say or indicate any sort of rejection. He touched the front of my panties, and then used his fingers to pull the crotch to the side, exposing my vagina and the small amount of hair I have down there. He blew on me, a slow, cool stream of air. Sometimes, I can close my eyes even now and feel his breath. He pulled the crotch to one side, and said, 'I would like to help you feel more relaxed.' He pressed his fingers toward my vagina, touched where my clitoris is, then lowered his face into me."

"I was pressed up against the wall, and his face was in my panties. His tongue was working in and out of me, and I think I wriggled my hips to rub into him some more. He pulled away a bit and said, 'I hope you're feeling better.' It's possible that I cried a little, but I was definitely feeling better. He stood up and pulled me toward him. He reached behind my back and unclasped my bra. He pulled the bra forward, pulled the straps off my arms, and my boobs fell free. He took them up with his hands, one at a time. They're large, and Morris needed two hands for each. He caressed and fondled, he licked my nipples. I have a scar under my left breast from when I was a kid and I fell out of a tree. He traced the scar first with his finger, and then went back with his tongue. 'I hope you're feeling better,' he said again."

"He took my hand, and began to walk toward the bedroom. I followed. I chose to follow. I climbed up on his bed on my hands and knees. I felt his body approach me from behind. He pulled my panties off me -- I was completely naked. I turned to look. He was completely clothed. He said, 'I'm worried about your neck. Don't turn back over your shoulder like that, you might pull a muscle.' I didn't realize it then, but I don't think he was worried i would pull a muscle. But I did as he instructed. I looked forward at the wall behind the bed. I heard noises behind me, but didn't turn."

"It was silent. The noises -- what were they? -- stopped, and I was still on my hands and knees facing the wall behind the bed. I began to wonder what led me here. I tried to remember the safeword, but then thought, no, I consent to being here."