Exploring Maggie

by KT Morrison

  If he had sat next to her on this train what would have happened? If he had sat himself down on the outside aisle, instead of this over-perfumed white woman who had barely looked up from her phone when Maggie had said Hi, what would transpire? How does one transform a mutual eye contact and recognized mutual admiration into having sex? She supposed she would chat with him. He would be charming, totally wanting to have sex with her. Then what? Something magical but very atavistic would flash in both their eyes...?

  Where would you go on an Amtrak? The washroom? Very gross. As hot as that guy was, having sex with him in a stinking train bathroom, one coming out of fucking Boston, was highly disgusting. What then? Would they touch each other while they both sat facing the same sightless direction? He could take off his suit jacket, lay it in his lap, she could take her poncho, lay it in hers. Their hands would explore. Her fingers would find the shape of his cock in his pants, trace it with her fingers.

  Would they be kissing? That would attract too much attention, draw eyes to the movement of their hands under their camouflage. They would stare into one another, laugh and smile, make lustful narrowed eyes. She would take off her panties, do that in the bathroom, let her legs part for his male-model hand. He would put a finger inside her oh-so-slowly, watching her intently as he did to feed off her expression. She would sigh. The zipper of his pants would be drawn down, his cock would come out. It would be big, of course. Mildly aroused but still lazy enough to flop against his thigh. Jay’s cock was amazing to watch when it was flaccid. The way it had weight, the way it would flop, dangle, swing... Hadn’t seen Cole’s yet when it wasn't hard. Her hunk would have one like Jay but his would be white...mmm, yes—uncircumcised like her Cole’s too. She decided that she liked foreskins. Yes, they were gross but maybe sex was better when it was just a little gross, a little mucousy, a little biological.

  This could really happen, couldn't it? Her hunk would go for it, she thought. No longer timid Maggie, overwhelmed by men, she understood her value in other men's eyes. If she had given the hunk a knowing nod, she may be engaged right now in sex with him. Maybe, like she had teased Max, in the hunk’s apartment. Or a hotel room.

  For now, she thought of them side-by-side, hands on each other’s slippery warm parts they kept hidden all day but tingled with eager life. Giving each other the joy of touch. She would grip his wrist with one of her hands, feel the tendons at work under his skin as he fingered her. Her hand would bump the sharp edges of his Rolex (worn on the improper wrist for the purposes of her fantasy), a symbol of his success because he is that type of man. Not some gold and diamond one because he didn't have a small dick. She knew that for sure; it was huge in her hand. No, he had nothing to prove. His was steel, no-nonsense, perhaps vintage, some incredible value hidden in its history that he would tell you about some time when you lay in bed in his apartment after making amazing love all night, the sun streaming through the windows of his Seaport loft...

  Wow. Holy shit, Margaret. You had anal sex with Cole last night. Say it with me: That. Was. Sex. Then You let him pretend to be inside you while he had made love with both your hands until he ejaculated. Then you had wild dirty-talk sex with Max last night. Sex with Jay this morning. In public, en plein air, as they say. Then, with your fiancé, you had more dirty-talk, mentally and physically powerful sex.

  Sex, sex, sex.

  Maybe, now just maybe, Maggie, you might want to put into focus the purpose of this weekend rather than the diversion you and your filthy fiancé cooked up this morning...

  But her hunk hadn't made her come yet, and she wanted him to.

  Mm, he had her close. The rhythmic jostling, the clacka-clacka rocking her bottom in her padded seat. Her brand new panties had been dampened, she could feel that for sure.

  Would she look him in the eye when she came? Was that too aggressive? Maybe that would freak him out. He would think of her as that weird Chinese girl on the train who watched his eyes while she came on his finger. Or maybe, the other way, he would always remember that hot, vaguely Asian girl who looked in his eyes as she came on his finger. That was good. Mm-hmm, he would always remember her; maybe he would always wish that he’d got her number. Her tummy fluttered, her breath shaky from her nostrils.

  His cock was in her hand. He was hard, steely hard. She used his foreskin, blipping it up and down over his glans. Was he as big as Jay? ...Cole? Yes, let’s just say he has Cole’s cock. That she could work with.

  Under his Glen plaid jacket there would be the slightest movement, a brief syncopated tenting of the fabric as her grip gave him pleasure. They would come together, watching each other. Where would he come? Surely not inside that finely tailored jacket. Maybe she had two hands under there and one would cup his seed. What if it shot out forcefully? Sometimes it did. Collecting it in the hollow of her palm wasn’t foolproof. Perhaps a condom. Maybe he stretched one down on it... Not very sexy though, was it? A sock. Guys jerk off into socks, right? She’d heard that alluded to. She wasn’t wearing socks. His socks? Mm, also not sexy. What if he didn’t have nice feet? It was a fantasy, Maggie... He has nice feet. She didn’t want to see his feet.

  Your panties, Margaret.

  “Oh,” she gasped out loud, just a gentle whisper, drowned by the sounds of the train.

  Yes, the very panties you removed in the washroom. Oh, that was brilliant. She liked it, he would like it. Her pink panties...no, for the fantasy’s sake they were silk...no, satin, satin panties...black with lace trim, very expensive and finely made. Yes, they were wrapped around him but her hand was underneath so she could feel the heat of his manhood, feel the gummy skin.

  Now her hands were clutching the arm rests. Eyes clamped shut, she flexed and wriggled her bottom in the seat.

  They would orgasm together. It was in his control. He was the kind of man who could control your orgasm. She would watch his eyes, waiting for him to tell her he was ready and then he would send her off like a rocket ship with what he did between her legs with that fine hand, the one groomed and manicured to a masculine polish at Barbershop Lounge. He would know he was close and when it was time he would summon her orgasm from her, curling his finger, wagging it, telling that naughty little pleasure to get over here and lick his thousand dollar shoes.

  When she came, he would too, both of them clenching their stomachs tightly, swallowing the grunts and exclamations that wanted to burst from them; she would feel the pulsing of his semen tugging at the panties in her grip, he would feel her woman parts grip his finger so tightly (that night he would masturbate, fantasizing how tight she would have been, cursing that they hadn’t fucked; Christ, what was her name!), she would feel him go rigid in her hand, feel the underside of his magnificent cock flexing as the fluid pumped out of him. It would be hot and wet in her hand, streaming over her knuckles, and she would have to bite her tongue because the pleasure he masterfully stroked from her wanted to consume her, wanted to...

  The slipperiest orgasm tickled through her. A real life one. Seized her up and made her whole body tingle like she’d been on the verge of sneezing and had it interrupted. Her mouth fell open, and she curled forward slightly, squashing her pussy with her clamped thighs. She strangled the sound that wanted to come from her. She crushed the vinyl armrests in her grip, then one hand shot to cover her mouth. The white woman watched her disinterestedly, went back to her phone.

  Slowly it relaxed and her muscles released. She sank into the chair and felt like she was in heaven and someone had cranked the heater. She had just made herself come with her mind. No man touched her. She hadn't touched herself. She was breathless.

  Settling sleepily now into the cushioned chair, her head gently rocked back and forth with the motion of the train. The blurred green shapes of tree tops rushed past the window, beyond, in the distance, lay the spread of industrial Boston, gray and dismal and yet burgeoning with activity and development.

  Her heart beat strongly, it's thudding coming slowly into her eardrums. She felt incr
edible. She shouldn’t feel so incredible, should she? Or maybe she shouldn’t feel so guilty for feeling incredible.

  Perhaps her sexuality was getting out of hand. Crazy as that time when she was a teenager, and she thought she might go mad if she didn't feel the touch of a man. Accepted oddball Lee as her first lover she was so wild. Yes, she was like that now but not from abstinence. Like it now, but engaged in the obverse. Up to her B-cups in extreme hyper-sexuality. Something might be wrong with her. Perhaps a CAT scan would show a large tumor (don’t worry, Miss Becker, the lab says it’s benign) that pressed on her pituitary or whatever turned you, made a young girl pump her horny chemicals...

  Her eyes grew heavy, and with that she drifted off again, this time in a sleep made fitful by bizarre sexual escapades and bad behavior, the whole while Max watched her, shocked but aroused...

  Outside Wickford Junction, groggy after emerging from a fitful sleep, she took her phone up, looked at the screen again, read more texts from Max. She responded.

  Maggie: cute stockbroker took me to lunch in Boston. Didn’t jerk him off yet, but he did kiss my cheek. Really nice lips

  Maggie: Very soft lips. Things go well, I might have to get a different train

  Maggie: If my parents call you just say I missed the bus in Vermont

  Maggie: Aaaggh!! I’m not supposed to be talking to you dammit, this is just so exciting!!!

  Now she scrolled through her film roll, found the picture of her dreamy hunk, drew a heart around him with her finger, fired it off to her fiancé. She put the phone back in her purse and smiled, watched out the window as she could see the rebuilt train station coming into view, its tall clock tower side heliographing fall sunlight from its small square windows.

  From her bag she heard her phone ding—didn't even check it. A wicked smile bubbled to the surface, imagining all the worried things Max might have texted back, laughing to herself how crazy she might make him.

  9

  Switchboard

  Thursday, October 5th

  When she’d arrived home by limo, the service picking her up out front of Wickford Junction, her mother was still at work. Father was in Norway, his plane was coming home on Saturday, and she was alone. There had been a note on the high island counter in the kitchen. Written in her mother’s odd, tight and back slanting hand, it had read:

  Your dinner will arrive at 6 P.M. I will be home late. It’s a perfect time for you to study. If I am not home before 10 P.M., remember that you have appointments tomorrow.

  That left a lot up in the air. What appointments? They were finding her dress on Saturday, tomorrow was Friday. Wouldn’t her mother be at work? She came home a day earlier than the dress fitting, yet her father was away on business...

  A little before six, dinner had been delivered. A young woman in white uniform brought to the kitchen door a zippered bag. She’d let her in and the young chef arranged steaming containers on the counter for her. Rice with coconut and lime, organic farm fresh chicken, grilled sea bass with almonds oranges and basil. Everything perfectly cooked and perfectly nutritious, just as she had imagined her mother had instructed.

  The chef was that cool kind of girl, hefty in size but with a winning smile and effortless cheer. Her face was pretty and she had lots of earrings laced up her auricle and a tantric symbol tattooed on her neck below her ear. Told her she was private chef at the Schlesinger’s home, longtime neighbors of theirs. Klaus Schlesinger a former associate of her father’s, working at the same firm when they first came here from Holland. She was chatty and Maggie would have talked longer but she hadn't had a shower yet and she was hungry. The chef left her to eat, getting in a Pontiac Vibe and beeping twice as she left. Maggie closed the gate behind her using the control panel by the fridge.

  Max called while she ate and worked on finishing her book on Toulouse-Lautrec. She didn’t answer; laughed out loud at how mean she was being. It made her stomach tighten and tingle—with mirth and good humor, not meanness. The meanness was manufactured fun. In her mind she pictured him in his dorm room, trying to keep his chagrin from roommate Steve, telling himself that of course his fiancé didn't have sex with a stranger on the train or, God, the bus. But there would be part of him that was thinking Shit, what if she did? That part of him, and she was becoming very aware of it, was kind of fun. Not answering her phone was her gift to him. She was feeding that little gollum that lived in the swampy, moss-slick parts of his brain, worrying a tarnish on a metal band of sick jealousy.

  Providing nourishment to that weird part of him was his reward for his allowances regarding her sexual proclivity. Growing sexual proclivity. What other man than Max would allow her to pursue the things she had missed while she had already promised herself to him? Now, he got something from it too, but she didn't mind that their darkness was symbiotic. Maybe it was some knowing glimmer they saw in each other’s eyes from the very beginning that told them they were two of a kind. And it just took them a few years for their stinking flower to gather up the necessary nutrients and minerals from the soil of their loving relationship before opening up to the light.

  Three times Max called. It began to worry her that he was calling about something serious but then her phone dinged with a text message.

  Max: you got home okay, right?

  She laughed out loud at that. Picturing him now like an admonished child. Worried that his mommy was dissatisfied with his behavior, looking for her favor. Coming up with a text that would better encourage a response from her other than his sexual worry.

  She texted.

  Maggie: what a day!

  She waited.

  Max: I know. You home?

  She smiled. Laying on her bed, freshly showered, scrubbed, and lemony-freshened with a douche, she was feeling quite good. No one was home and she lay in her room, face down on her bed, up on her elbows with books and iPad and macbook and iPhone spread around her. Wearing just a wide neck sweatshirt, panties, legs and feet bare, hair tied back in a ponytail.

  Maggie: We’re not supposed to be talking.

  Max: I have to! I miss you!

  He was happy he had her talking now.

  Maggie: we shouldn’t be talking...I want you going crazy...

  Max: I am going crazy

  Maggie: I want you to really miss me...then when I come home...you know...

  Max: Oh God. You are killing me.

  Maggie: I miss you

  Max: I love you

  She texted him back a bursting heart emoji.

  Maggie: I love you too

  Her legs kicked gently while she watched the screen, saw the signs he was writing something, then it would stop. Then the dots would appear again, dancing while her Max carefully worded what he wanted to know. A smile was pulling her cheeks up and she giggled and threw her head forward, waited. The dots stopped again.

  This time her iPhone, iPad, and macbook all chimed in unison. A tab scrolled down on her phone but moved away before she could read it. Tilting her iPad screen, she read:

  Jay: You make it home okay?

  She chuckled and licked her lips. To Jay she texted:

  Maggie: Chilling in RI, all in one piece!

  With a wide smile she rolled over on to her back, put her iPad on her stomach and brought her knees up. While she waited, her iPhone chimed and she held it in her palm and read:

  Max: I assume you were kidding about your traveling partner

  Maggie: why?

  Max: seriously, maggie

  Maggie: what?

  Max: were you serious?

  Maggie: you told me to

  Max: dirty talk, you know that

  Maggie: no I don’t

  Max: so you did?

  Maggie: yeah. I wouldn’t have, I wasn’t looking. That guy found me and you told me to. Literally told me to

  Max: ok

  A laugh escaped her, loud in her still room, and she pictured his cute face twisted in frustration.

  Maggie: are u mad?

  Max
: no

  Maggie: I thought it was ok

  Max: I guess it is

  She stifled a laugh, snorting into her clenched palm, like she was worried he would overhear her. Her hand came away and she enjoyed a loud laugh.

  Maggie: sorry

  Max: it’s ok. What happened?

  Maggie: I don’t know. Cheer up, maxy, I’ll tell you everything when I get home

  Max: please tell me now

  Maggie: not much happened, okay?

  Max: then tell me…

  Now her devices chimed again and she tilted the iPad leaning on her thighs, angling a glare away from the screen so she could read:

  Jay: Glad ur ok. Lot of weirdos on the trains

  Maggie: Never mind the buses...I heard a guy got his head cut off one time while he was sleeping.