First Times and Fantasies
Chapter 4
Edna and Karen

Disclaimer: The missionary priest is my creation, Everyone else belongs to other people. Archive rights: Any site with automatic archive rights "Mutual Admiration": "A League of Their Own" If anyone else wants it, we request that you just ask first.

Feedback: Always welcome, in any shape or form. Summary: Ororo tells the girls her first experience with sex.

WARNINGS: Again, I mess with the details of a character's comic history. If you're sensitive to that kind of thing, skip this chapter.

Author's Notes: In writing this fic, I took to consideration two aspects of Ororo's history from the comics. One, that she was a child-thief in Cairo. And two, that she was worshipped as a goddess in Mount Kilimanjaro, Tanzania.

Dedication: Thanks to Karen for inviting me to write for this series. It was great fun. I've always been, and still am, in awe of your fic talent.

Thanks again to Logan's Marie for her tireless efforts to beta this chapter.


You're all probably wondering, what kind of man could possibly serve as Ororo's first lover? Well, in answering that question, there are some things about my past that have to be considered.

When a woman spends her days being worshipped by her followers, it is quite impossible for her to see a man or any woman, as an equal. At best, she would treat them as if they were her children. Children she would nurture and protect.. But never were they the kind who could look her in the eye and defy her, risking to earn her wrath.

And that was what made my first lover different from the rest.

Skepticism and doubt were the first things I saw in his eyes. It had been a long time since someone gave me those kinds of looks. Looks that were neither supplicating or imploring. No, it was a look that reminded me of my thieving days in Cairo. The same kind of look the Cairo police gave me whenever they caught up with the little girl who could snatch a purse at a blink of an eye.

But that was before the onset of my powers. At eighteen, in full awareness and control of my gifts, I had people from various tribes treading across the Serengeti Plains all the way to the slopes of Kilimanjaro, just to pay their respects to me, their weather goddess. They came in droves with their dust-covered feet, livestock in tow, offering little treasures, just to get in my good graces and have their weather wishes granted.

"It's my son's wedding, please give him and his bride sunny weather."


"The land is arid and dry, the crops are dying, please make it rain."


"The heavens have to mourn with our people. Please make it drizzle on the chief's burial."

I was judge and executor of their pleas. It was me who decided which plea or event deemed fit of my presence and action. For several years, that was how it worked.

Until one day, a priest came to my little village, searching for the resident goddess.

One of my faithful followers showed him in, telling him to respectfully kneel and lower his head for the goddess. He complied, but he never lowered his eyes, always holding my gaze.

That, for me, was a first. Still, I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

Tall, dark and proud, he was a stunning contrast to what I was accustomed. He also dressed differently, donning collared shirt and pants. He must be a city man, I concluded, but flustered with his attire, I was not. Various men and women from the big cities of Zanzibar or Dodoma have come to see me in the past, all just as humble and pleading as my immediate followers. His city upbringing was no cause for alarm. It was his eyes and the questions they held that had my heart racing.

He was a missionary priest, he explained. He was born in Kenya and studied with the Catholic priests and nuns who built schools in his little village. Later on, he said, he decided to follow in their footsteps and studied in the seminary. That was how he became a priest, taking his vows just a few months ago. Tanzania had been his first assignment. He was to introduce Catholic religious teachings to tribes that resided near Lake Victoria.

It was while working with tribes at Lake Victoria that he heard about the story of a weather goddess who lived on the slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro. His potential parishoners told him incredible stories of rains and winds whipped up by this so-called goddess. The goddess, he was told, was very much alive and very much in human form. The total opposite of the omniscient, albeit invisible God he was trying to promote.

I was, in his words, a hindrance to their spiritual education and salvation. According to him, the tribes did not need the likes of a manipulative woman like me to play on their hopes. He accused me of being a woman who was only after my own survival and selfish needs.

I knew of people from missionaries. As a child, I even tried stealing from their pockets, but I soon realized they were just as penniless as the next beggar and decided to just steal from the many tourists infesting the city. If he was a missionary as he claimed, then to me, he was an aberration of their sort.

Never had I seen a priest whose eyes held scorn and accusation the way his eyes did. The missionaries I'd met always rewarded my impish behavior with an offer to join them in their schools. This man, obviously, was young and terribly enthusiastic about his new task.

He would live in my village, he explained, and learn as much as possible about me. He was very confident that he could expose me as a fraud, someone who was just as helpless and human as the rest of them. Someone, he further explained, someone who didn't deserve their worship and faithfulness.

I listened quietly to his vehement words. Amid all his accusations and zealous tirade, I was tempted to strike him down with a quick flash of lightning. Yet, something held me back. There were new sensations and emotions going through my mind as I contemplated on using my powers.

I felt anger at his presumptuous behavior, but also felt excited with the challenge that he posed. His youthful passion and fiery logic had my fight instincts pumping and alert. It had been a long time since I felt the adrenaline rush of usurping and crushing a threat. And I was certain, early on, that I would win the war he was waging.

Keeping his promise, he integrated himself amongst my followers. Many a time I had to create rain whenever his makeshift irrigation system wouldn't pump water to the vegetable plots. He would dismiss my miracle as mere coincidence despite seeing my eyes turn pure white when I created rain showers at will.

I told him, that for a man of faith, he was greatly skeptical of unexplainable phenomenon.

Always, he would bite back with the comment that his faith was based on signs. He simply found it unacceptable that a scheming and beautiful woman like me would ever be chosen as a holy and miraculous sign.

I continued to be patient. I would meditate and try to commune with mother nature's elements. However, instead of feeling the sun's energy under my skin, or the water that ran under ground, disturbing and sensual images disrupted my concentration. My mind would conjure up images of the questioning priest's lean and wiry frame. Images of how his forearms flexed as he strained with the water pump or how his smooth ebony skin glistened with sweat, found their way into my consciousness. I wondered about how his strong body would feel against mine.

It didn't help that I sensed his sexual attraction to me, despite his pitiful attempts to conceal it. There were days that I would purposefully tease his interest. I would walk past his little schoolhut in a flattering wrap and just as I expected, I would feel his eyes following me. Sometimes, I would turn and meet those eyes. In them, I would see the battle between doubt and desire. It would always end with him breaking away from our staring contest and him running toward the direction of the nearby stream. I could only guess what miracles he performed with the cool water.

I knew I was beautiful. My flowing white hair, once considered an abnormality, made me exotic and mysterious. My skin, richer than most women in my area, maintained a tempting shade of espresso and stayed incredibly soft despite constant exposure to the beating sun. The idea that it made the priest uneasy gave me a sense of power. After three years of acting as mother and protector, I was only beginning to learn the seductive powers of being a woman.

For several weeks, the sexual teasing and religious arguments continued to play out as our constant form of interaction. Anything else might have tipped the precarious balance we were carefully treading.

Little did I know, that in a few days, the scales would tip in my favor.

It was late twilight. The sky was ablaze with purples and reds, as the sun quietly descended to its rest. The setting was perfect for my meditation, but just like the past few days, the curse of the priest's physical beauty disrupted my peace. This time, I was no longer a passive admirer. I imagined my hands running all over his body, caressing every taut muscle of his physique.

The images had me aroused and hot. I hadn't realized that my real hands were cupping my breasts, slowly working their way down to my navel. Pretty soon, those hands and fingers delved deep into my crotch, releasing my tense heat and arousal. I closed my eyes, unable to believe the sensations emanating from my core as my fingers worked their magic.

Then, I heard something snap.

Instinctively, I tore my hands from my navel and whirled to face my intruder. It was the priest. He must have been watching me touch myself for his eyes held a strange look. Gone were the accusations and doubts. All I saw was a pair of eyes glazed with desire.

He stepped closer, moving forward until he could stretch out his arm and have his hand cup my face. He held it tenderly, his fingertips lightly touching my cheeks. I watched him as he stared intently at my mouth, lowering my lids the moment his lips touched mine.

It was a soft kiss, a soft kiss that quickly built up to a fervent lock of lips, while my hands slowly explored his strong chest and back. Moments later, my mouth opened under his insistent tongue and gladly welcomed the exquisite invasion. Our tongues probed the depths of each other's mouths, creating explosive sensations throughout my body.

He pulled away first, gently. Then his hands started to peel away my clothes, kneeling down as he completely divested me of my garments. There, I stood, under the open blazing sky, naked as the day I was born. And he, a man of the cloth, knelt before me, his hands trembling at the sight of my bare skin.

Soon, those trembling hands were lovingly caressing my hips, trailing down to slightly part my thighs. My eyes rolled to the back of my head when I felt his slick tongue snake itself between the lips of my vagina. Expertly, he laved and suckled the core of my femininity. The raspy feel of his tongue against my sensitive bud and labia had my knees buckling. I had to grip his head to keep my balance as his face rode the rhythmic thrusting of my hips. Then, with a firm lick on my clit, he gave me my first orgasm. I must have gasped loudly cause he immediately covered my mouth with his hand.

Sensing that the last waves of my orgasm had passed, he pulled away his hand and slowly lowered me to the ground, parting my legs with his knees. He quickly stripped off his own garments, granting me the sight of his lean body and darkly swollen cock. I felt hot juices pump between my legs at the sight. Fortunately, he sensed my eagerness and quickly lifted my hips as he poised his member for entry. Slowly he ground his hips, letting only a few inches of his penis into my hot and dripping core. I was already digging my fingers onto his forearms, lifting my hips, urging him on to give me more. Then, without warning, he slammed himself into me, filling me with the fullness of his cock. On and on he drove his unrelenting thrusts as my insides adjusted to his size.

Intense pain registered quickly when he broke through my hymen. That slowly turned into a dull ache as he continued to pump inside me. I soon realized that something wasn't right. I couldn't breathe as I felt his weight rock against my body.

Directed by instinct, I used the strength of my arms and maneuvered my legs so our positions were reversed. I adjusted our bodies so I was on top, controlling the thrusting motions. It felt right. I was now gasping with pleasure instead of choking from lack of air. Straddling his hips, I rocked and rode him, filling myself with his hard cock. I even discovered that if I angled my hips, I could crush my clit against his groin, intensifying the white heat coursing from my navel. Within moments, I rocked myself to a second orgasm. He soon followed with his own.

Gasping for breath, I looked down to watch his face. I saw him grimace, then relax as his own release came over him. I felt his body go limp after his climax. Then, I watched as his previously desire-filled eyes were washed over with guilt and self-doubt. I pulled away when I saw the inner-punishment he was giving himself.

We lay there, side-by side, neither one of us touching each other. We watched twilight turn into a deep starry night as we brandished our minds with racing thoughts. I filled mine with feelings of triumph, while he, I assume, tried to find some semblance of solidity for his tattered confidence and beliefs. He lost and he knew it. I fell asleep with my smug thoughts.

The next morning, when I woke up, I was alone. Going back to my village, I soon discovered that the priest left early, before sunrise even. He told the farmers that he was needed somewhere else, but a replacement would be sent in a few days.

I was not surprised. I beat him at his own game. After all, I was a goddess, and he, well, he was just a man.


The women all stared in silent wonder at the woman who just finished her tale.

"Wow! Ro' you can be like the poster child for feminists everywhere," gushed Jubilee.

"Yeah, woman on top, that's 'Ro," added Rogue.

Jean only shook her head in amazement. "I can't believe that you'd been only 18 then and already with so much confidence."

"Well, my childhood wasn't easy but my adolescence was quite, to use Jubilee's expression, 'unreal'. I had to believe strongly in myself to survive not only for me, but for those who relied on my powers," Ororo explained.

"You didn't even tell us his name," Kitty piped in, wondering.

"It doesn't matter. It didn't matter then, it doesn't matter now," Ororo replied.

"Why?" asked Kitty.

"It just doesn't," Ororo stated firmly.

"Have you ever considered the idea that maybe you're a lesbian?" wondered Kitty.

All four women turned to Kitty in shock.

"Kitty, where in the world would you get that idea?" asked Jean.

"Well," Kitty explained, "it's just that her whole story is so, I don't know, it sounded as if the man wasn't even important, like he was just a tool. It gave me idea that maybe Ro here doesn't even like men."

The white-haired woman could only smile at the guileless observation of Kitty.

"I'm sorry if it came off as a man-hater story, but it's not. I guess my first-time was more about power than love. Not all first-times ever come out ideal I'm sorry to say," explained Ororo.

"Excuse me," Jubilee said, snapping everyone's attention, "but speaking of ideals, I think it's time we heard from the virgins."

"Yes," Jean agreed, "I definitely want to know how dirty your innocent little minds can get."

Kitty and Rogue avoided looking at each other, concentrating on their drinks, trying to ignore the fact that one of them was to go next.

"Oh c'mon, there's no way you two are chickening out of this one. We've shared the nitty-gritty details of our past. The least you can do is entertain us with some imaginary smuttiness," argued Jubilee.

"I agree," said Ororo.

"I think Kitty should go first," urged Jubilee.

Kitty turned to give Jubilee dagger looks for her suggestion, her cheeks quickly flushing to a furious red. On the other end of the counter, Rogue sighed with relief at Jubilee's words. Maybe after Kitty's story, her Logan fantasy wouldn't be so shocking.

"Now Kitty, there's nothing to be embarrassed about. We're all friends here. Everything said in this room, stays in this room," assured Jean.

Jubilee started giggling at Jean's clueless encouraging words.

"What's so funny?" asked Jean.

"You should ask Kitty, I think she has something important to say."

'"Jubes!" hissed Kitty.

"Oh it's no big deal! It's just a fantasy anyway!"

"What?" asked Jean, directing her question at Kitty.

The young girl was torn between belting Jubes for putting her on the spot or slinking off to hide in some corner where she could avoid Jean for the rest of her life.

"Ummm, you see," said Kitty, faltering with embarrassment, "my fantasy, well, it involves Scott." There, she said it.

Jean almost gagged on the bottle she was chugging.

"Scott?! My fiance and your straight as a ramrod English teacher is in YOUR fantasy?!" exclaimed a shocked Jean.

Kitty nodded.

"Whoah Jean! Don't mention the words ramrod and Scott in the same breath. It might make her fantasies kinkier than 70's porn," joked Jubilee.

"Quit it Jubes," begged an extremely embarrassed Kitty.

"Ok, Ok, I'll stop, but you have to start your fantasy tale in T minus three, two,..."

"All right! All right. Geez, Jubes. But Jean, are you sure you want to hear this?" asked a hesitant Kitty.

Jean could only quietly nod her yes, still in shock with the idea of teen girls lusting after her man. As much as she loved Scott, she was quite sure that he wasn't exciting enough for their tastes. And, as Kitty started to unravel her tale, she soon realized how seriously wrong she was when it came to Scott's appeal with the younger set.

CHAPTERS:   1   2   3   4   5   6   7

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