Sharing Maggie

by KT Morrison

  “Why?”

  “We want her to have an awesome time, right? Want her to have, like, experiences she missed or whatever. Then she needs attention. You have to work her over.”

  “In front of her parents?”

  “She has a hangup with her folks. I wonder why?” he said, throwing his hands up and rolling his eyes. “It turns her on. Trust me.”

  “You're telling me what turns my fiancée on?”

  “Max. Don’t. Okay? It’s me, dude. This will be our Secret Society. We’ll make Maggie happy. You're going to marry her. You're the lucky asshole who gets to spend your life with that fucking goddess, okay? She’s looking for a little fun. Don’t deny her.”

  “I’m not. I’m the one who agreed to this.”

  “Yeah, but you’re wrecking it for her.”

  “No, I'm not.”

  “Trust me, you are. Think about it. You agreed to something crazy. So fucking do it, Wild Man. Fucking do it. Show her a crazy time. But Max...really commit to it. She’ll thank you forever. You keep throwing up road blocks because, dude, I think you’re making this about you.”

  He paused and they held eyes. Max could feel some truth seeping in and he didn't like it.

  Cole said, “Stop thinking about what you want out of this. I know this excites you. You wouldn’t agree to it otherwise. Stop being selfish. Start thinking about what she wants. What she’s missing. Promise me. Think about it.”

  He nodded with a smile over Max’s shoulder and he turned to see Maggie come sheepishly from the archway, done in the washroom.

  Cole left him there, went to Maggie. They stood in the light from the opened doors, two familiar friendly shapes, mostly silhouette, lit from behind by the outside. Maggie and Cole came toe to toe and she looked in his eyes. She had her hands together at her front, bunched in fists. She took one fist and put it in the pocket of Cole’s jacket, stuffing something in there.

  “Max, I just want to go home,” she whispered to him in the back seat of the Range Rover.

  “You feel all right?” he whispered back.

  “Yes. I just...”

  “What?”

  “I know where I want the reception.”

  “The Poirot?”

  “You know,” she said, her eyes on his now.

  That was where she wanted to have their reception, but for whatever reason, her parents were making her meet for samples at two other hotels. Truthfully, she didn't really care where they went, but given the three choices she’d have just picked the Poirot and that was that.

  Max looked nervously up to the front of the vehicle. Could see Carol in three quarter pose, her stern brow fixed on the Newport traffic. The Beckers didn't speak, but the radio quietly played a symphony from the satellite radio.

  “Maggie, they went and arranged all these meetings. We have to...”

  “I know,” she sighed, a slight whine whirring up her voice. “I just want to get back home.”

  He had a good idea that meant she wanted to get moving on her sexual activity. Like Cole had her so worked up she couldn't take it anymore. Didn't even care about planning their wedding, she just wanted to get stuffed with his cock. Shame washed over him because it aroused him. Made him mad, made him jealous, hurt his heart but he felt an excitement—low and primal, something in him got lit up by her badness. He could fight it, wrestle her to suit his whims but maybe Cole was right. He thought Cole was right, but he didn't want to admit it, because admitting it would lead to letting her do it. And as much as he wanted it, it frightened him. He’d wanted to fence in her sexuality and watch it like an exhibit. He was trapped in his own fucking cage now. He'd built it. Done it himself. Ran all the walls, barbwire along the top, maybe an electrified line. Got it all set up, a job well done, but he'd fucking locked himself inside it now. He was trapped with whatever it was that lurked in Maggie's psyche. Like a goddamn tiger, he was starting to think.

  He sighed, didn't want the answer maybe, but asked just the same. “Maggie...what did you put in Cole’s pocket?”

  She let her eyes go wide, watching out the window between her parents. Without looking at him she leaned close and whispered, “My...panties.”

  He brought his hands together in his lap, his thighs flexed like steel. Breathed softly, let his insides loosen before he started to hurt. Concentrated on his breathing. Anger came up and he moved away from it. Dodged it. He bit his lips and breathed some more.

  “You okay?” she said.

  He nodded, lips still pinched.

  He whispered, “You're not wearing any panties?”

  She shook her head.

  He got close and said, “You're a bad little girl.”

  She nodded and smirked.

  7

  Black Beach

  Saturday, September 30th

  So she sat through two tastings at two different restaurants with no panties on. While she was planning her wedding she had all her attention between her legs. On the excitement there. Cole had her wet. This was so bad. Badness on an unthinkable level. She would marry Max but she would always remember that the day they planned their wedding she was dreaming of another man. Dreaming of Cole—and her husband was going to watch her make love with him. It was the kind of naughtiness that she had fantasized but never thought would ever be a part of her life. Her ideas of relationships were formed in Classic literature. Monogamy and fidelity, devotion and love. That was her conception. Those were her rules, her morality. She couldn’t deny she had urges but they were pure smutty badness. Hormonal blips, moments in time when her body craved masculinity by ancient processes of fertility. Now she had both. Love and smutty badness. Attached to Max and loving him but that good man had allowed her to explore. So wanting to be with her that he would allow her to be shared so she wouldn't wonder. It was a perfect situation. Max could get hissy at times but she would work with him. Knew what he liked, learning what he responded to. Liked to be challenged, liked to be humiliated. Wasn't sure how much yet, didn't think Max knew either but if the cost of admission for this wild ride was making her Max suffer in his weird little way she was on board. It turned her on too.

  They were at the third tasting, sitting at a table in a private room at The Poirot on Cliff Walk. The place Maggie knew they would select for their reception. An elegant, opulent mansion from the Gilded Age. It was perfect.

  “Now this one, Margaret, I think you will love.”

  She nodded for Valerie, showed her a semblance of enthusiasm.

  The waiter appeared, dressed in white jacket and black pants. He brought a plate and set it in front of her. The plate was Limoges, the edges gilded.

  “We’ve, of course, saved the best for last,” Valerie said, eyeing Maggie but moving to include Carol and Martin. “Butter poached Maine lobster, polenta, an heirloom tomato confit, hedge hogs, and a black garlic custard.”

  Valerie leaned to her plate and smelled, her face showing elegant joy.

  They sat at a table for eight. Gold linen draped over the table, a sheet of white over top. Crystal vase in the center of the table with orange blossoms. The room was small, set up one step from the rest of the dining room. Walls in mahogany panels, arm chairs in leather like a gentleman’s club from hundreds of years ago. They sat on white wicker around the table. French doors lined the wall that faced the ocean. It was crisp out there, lawn leaf-littered, white caps winking silently on the rough navy water.

  The lobster was delicious. Maybe the best she had ever tasted. The flesh was soft and smooth, had the texture of the butter. The table was interspersed with plates they’d been served and appetizers she hadn’t yet tried. A pewter bucket in a stand at her elbow held a chilling bottle of Chateau Ste. Michelle.

  She was not one of those young girls. One that swooned and day-dreamed of their wedding. She never kept a scrapbook of ideas, had no plans for her wedding dress, didn’t care about flowers. She was Dutch. Her mother was pragmatic Chinese. Her parents were cold. She could have told her mother over the
phone: Trinity Church, The Poirot on Cliff Walk, lobster and steak. Stated the date. Shown up in white. She was not a princess. However, as detestable as even her parents found this, it was how it was done in Newport, and this was about connections and business as much as it was for their wedding. Martin and Carol needed to tell others of their choices and decisions for their daughter’s wedding. She was along for the ride.

  Cole pulled closer a delicate bowl rounded with glistening amber-green beads of Golden Oesettra. He scooped some into his mouth with a mother-of-pearl caviar spoon.

  “Shit, Maggie,” he whispered. “God, that’s good.”

  Max was trying the Angus prime filet mignon in a bone marrow bordelaise. “How is it?” she asked him. He answered with his eyes, letting them go wide while he chewed. When he swallowed he said, “We’re miles from Altieri’s.”

  Cole laughed. She turned to laugh with him as well and he lifted the spoon for her, held a small hillock of Russian caviar. Faces were turned. She held Cole’s hand steady, opened her mouth seductively, looked in his eyes while he gingerly deposited something onto her waiting tongue. She tasted the salty fish eggs, sucked her lips delicately while they waited for her opinion, said, “We have to have the caviar.” Her father nodded.

  She poured a half glass of Chardonnay and watched her hand shake. She needed to get out of here. Needed to get home, get down to the beach and touch Cole's body. Feel what his hands on her would be like. She sipped her wine. Watched Cole's masculine hands pull over a plate of oysters. Watched the muscle and tendon at work, the cuff of his fine dress shirt slip along the tweed of his jacket. His skin was tanned and smooth. He worked the tiny fork under his oyster and she watched him unabashedly. He lifted, then tilted the shell to his lip. Watched now the muscles of his neck and face work, watched him consume the slippery oyster, then suck his own lips.

  “Maggie, mm,” he moaned, “they serve it in a pickled pear mignonette. Please,” he said, preparing a shell for her. She wanted it fed to her. She wanted Max to watch. She wanted everyone to watch. Her handsome Best Man, with his nice build, dashing looks, roguish long blonde hair. At Farmingham she wanted people to know he was her friend. Now, here, she wanted people to worry they were intimate. She held her mouth open for him. He moved the shell to her lips while everyone watched this travesty. Fed her his oyster and she slurped it down with grace, her eyes on his. He watched her as she chewed twice and swallowed. Put the empty shell back on his plate. He scooted closer in his chair and he leaned towards her to tell her something. She covered her mouth, leaned in to hear it. Watched everyone's face waiting to hear what she thought of the oyster.

  He whispered huskily, “Does it taste as good as my come?”

  “Oh...wow,” she muttered, her eyes wide and watching her parents. “Oh...wow.”

  “Is it good? How does it taste?” Valerie asked, her face was looking a little worn now. Late in the day, and Maggie liked to think this heat between her and Cole was starting to worry the woman.

  “God,” she said. "It's good. It's so good. Wow. If you’ll excuse me.” She left the table politely and stumbled to the washroom, her face blossoming with heat.

  Oh. My. God. This fucking Cole. She had no idea it would be like this. He was hot and he was her friend and having sex with him when you were on a journey of missed sexual opportunities seemed like an obvious sort of thing. She had no idea he could turn up the heat so high. Her stomach was jabbed with dull tension, he had her aching. Was this what it was like for those other girls he dated?

  She stared at her smiling but flushed face in the gold framed mirror of a small, elegantly decorated bathroom. So glad now that Max had slowed them down. He was right. He was right to stop them. This was a big deal. God, she didn't know it could be like this. This was more intense than the anticipation of Jay. Though, to be fair, she was quite convinced she would not go all the way with him. Right now, looking in this mirror, looking in her own amber eyes, there was nothing that was going to stop her from having sex with Cole. Nothing. She was ravenous.

  Dried her hands on the towel left at the edge of the sink, wished she’d brought her purse to touch up the shine on her lips but she’d left that table in a hurry. Smiled again at her blushing reflection. The color that Cole had put on her cheeks.

  When she stepped into the hall he was there. Leaning against a mahogany paneled wall, elbow on a high marble topped table with an exploding bouquet of flowers in a crystal vase. She stopped short, froze in her tracks while the heavy bathroom door closed behind her. She smirked when he smirked. One corner of his lips coming up in a confident angle. Her smirk less confident.

  Cole eased off the table and sauntered the three steps to come to her. Put a hand on the wall behind her, looked down on her, made her look up into his blue eyes.

  “You ran off on me.”

  “I had to...go to the bathroom.”

  “I already have your panties. What did you take off for me this time?”

  She shrugged, sucked on her lower lip and smiled. His hand worked in his pocket while his eyes still held hers. He brought out her bunched panties in his grip. He held them to his mouth and smelled them. He smiled mean, eyes narrow, humming appreciatively like she had the best smell in the world. She'd checked them before she handed them over and thought they smelled like detergent.

  “Lift the front of your skirt, Margaret,” he said, tucking her panties back into the pocket of his jacket.

  She didn't even protest. Her hands dropped to the hem of her tartan skirt and she eased it up slowly to the tops of her thighs. They were in a hallway that bridged the restaurant to the hotel. A quiet well-appointed passage but one where someone could come through at any moment.

  “Higher,” he said.

  She sucked her lips again, inched her skirt up almost to her waist. His hand was on her and she struggled to keep her eyes open. She gasped. His big hand flat on the front of her thigh. Sliding higher then, heel first, fingers dragging the cable knit tights.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  He moved like he would kiss her and she jutted her chin to receive it, but he brushed his cheek against hers as his fingers worked under the waistband of her tights.

  “Oh my God, Cole,” she sighed.

  The tips of his fingers worked over her soft flesh and she could feel each point where he touched her. They scored over her skin, low, to the side, coming to the crease where her thigh met her belly. Her legs began to tremble.

  “I'm going to touch your pussy now,” he whispered.

  “Jesus, Cole, please just do it,” she said, her whisper trembling with anticipation.

  Using just the pad of his middle finger he explored her shapes. Tracing the cleft in her shaved mound, tickling high along her commissure where it crested above her hood. Then slipping along the plump engorged shaved halves on either side of her entry.

  “Oh God,” she moaned.

  When he touched her labia she almost cried out. She was wet. Could feel how slick she was in the warm easy movement of his fingertip. He stroked so lightly it tickled her and made her breaths heave and her eyebrows raise high.

  “Mm, Maggie, this is one nice little pussy. It’s so hot, it's burning. You know how wet you are?”

  She nodded, let her eyes close now, concentrated on the feel of his finger.

  “I've touched a lot of pussy, Maggie. You know me. I've never felt a girl get so wet.” His finger found her center and tested her aperture, eased her apart but didn't penetrate. “Fuck, you feel tight. I can't wait to fuck this little thing. God, you're dripping. You really want my cock don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “I'm going to give it to you. Don't worry, baby. In your ass, that little mouth again, balls deep in your pussy.”

  “Oh shit, Cole...”

  “You going to take it all?”

  “I will.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m going to take it, Daddy. Every inch.”

  “
That’s a good little girl,” he said. He eased his hand up her belly and out of her tights. Her skirt fell. Touched her with the middle finger, slipped it along her lower lip. It was slick with her excitement. She could smell herself on him. He forced her lips to part with his finger, then her teeth. She took it. Took his finger deep, tasted her sex on him. Sucked his finger, regarded him with narrowed eyes.

  “God, you can suck a cock. Max know how good you are?”

  She nodded, her lips pouted around his gently plunging finger. Her hands came and held his wrist.

  “He tell you?”

  She nodded again.

  “Margaret, did you show Max my come in your mouth?”

  She nodded and smiled, laughed through her nose.

  “God, you're my kind of little slut. You're a dirty girl.”

  “Mm-hmm,” she hummed around his finger.

  Her right hand lowered, found his belt buckle, smoothed his pants below that, found his cock down the right side of his pants. He wasn't wearing underwear. She handled his balls, then squeezed his penis through the gabardine.

  “You going to fuck your husband’s Best Man?”

  “Yeah,” she gasped, making a spit bubble on one side of his thrusting finger.

  “You fucking dirty whore. You want my cock in that whore pussy?”

  She nodded enthusiastically.

  His other hand stopped her from stroking him. He held her wrist.

  “Don't make me hard, Margaret. Unless you want your mother to see how fat my cock is.”

  She smiled and laughed again. He thrust his finger deep in her mouth.

  “Do you? You want her to know what you're going to take tonight. Want her to know—”

  The door opened at the end of the hall on the hotel side and their waiter emerged, holding an empty silver tray at his side. His eyes caught them and he quickly looked down. Cole took his finger from her, and she wiped her mouth dry with both her hands.

  They stayed quiet, unmoving. Waited for him to pass. He did, his eyes averted, went into the restaurant.