Slowly, Maggie was starting to accept the unacceptable. “Does everyone come through here? And what happens now? Do I meet someone like Mr. Jordan in that movie with Warren Beatty?”
“Ah, yes, Heaven Can Wait. That movie has led to more misunderstandings than anything in the last fifty years,” Lucy said. “People expect some kindly old gentleman, a mixture of God, Santa Claus, and James Mason. Nope. No one like that. Just us.”
“Actually,” Angela said, “very few people get to see us at all.” She clicked a few keys on her computer keyboard, then continued. “It’s usually very easy. People die and the decision’s already made. Good, bad, up, down. It’s usually pretty straightforward.”
“But, as we told you before,” Lucy said, “you are a problem.”
“Really,” Maggie said dryly, staring at the two women clicking away at their terminals.
“We have a decision to make here that will affect you for all eternity,” the women said in unison. “Heaven,” Angela said. “Or hell,” Lucy added.
“And what’s it like,” Maggie asked, looking into Lucy’s deep black eyes, “down there? Is it like the movies, all fire and brimstone?”
“Nah,” Lucy said, “actually it’s been air-conditioned. The staff couldn’t bear the heat any longer. It’s not pleasant, however. Everyone has tedious tasks to perform, like the rock up the side of the mountain thing or cleaning up after the trolls or collating a thousand copies of my daily, hundred-page report.
“Or reading it,” Angela said dryly.
Lucy glared at her, “Yes, lots of hard work and constant, blaring rock music.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “And recently, we’ve added some rap. But you have the evenings off and the food’s not half bad. Very hot, of course, vindalu curry and four-alarm chili at every meal.” Lucy hesitated, then added, “What I wouldn’t give for a steak, medium rare.” She shook her head and grew silent.
“I see.” Maggie turned to Angela expectantly.
“Oh, heaven’s wonderful,” she said, beaming beatifically. “There’s sensational organ and harp music all the time, and we have little to do but relax on fluffy clouds and think wonderful thoughts. There is a constant supply of ambrosia to eat and nectar to drink and wonderful intellectual people to talk to.” She sighed. “Ah, the talks we’ve had about the meaning of life and the future of mankind.”
Maggie thought that hell sounded much more like her type of place, but she hesitated to say so in front of Angela. There was a lot at stake here. She waited for the two silent women to continue, but when long minutes passed, Maggie brought them back to the present. “And I’m a problem for you.”
“Yes, yes, of course you are,” Lucy said, her head snapping back to her console. “You’re a prostitute, a hooker. You have sex with men for money. And you’re unrepentant.”
“I guess that’s true,” Maggie admitted. “I don’t apologize for what I do.” Suddenly a bit uneasy, she said, “Does that mean…” She made a thumbs-down signal with her right hand.
“It should,” Lucy said. “It certainly should.”
“But,” Angela jumped in, “you’re a truly nice person. Kind, considerate, loving. We checked your record.” She turned the monitor on her computer toward Maggie and clicked a few more keys. “Remember Jake? It was just a month or so before you, er, died.”
On the screen, Maggie could see a view of her apartment. Jake. She remembered that evening well as the scene played out.
The doorbell rang. Maggie rose gracefully from her chair, slid the crossword puzzle she had been working on under the seat cushion, straightened her simple yellow tennis sweater and rubbed her hands down the thighs of her jeans. “Coming,” she called. She crossed the large living room and opened the door. “You must be Jake,” she said, careful not to touch the young man who stood awkwardly before her. “Please come in.”
She backed up and motioned for Jake to come inside, but the young man didn’t budge. She looked him over quickly, noting his carefully combed sandy-brown hair and his gray tweed sport jacket and black slacks. She knew from his father that he was seventeen, but at that moment he looked about twelve, with large ears and skin deeply scarred from childhood acne. She tried not to smile at the nervous twining and retwining of his fingers and his deer-in-the-headlights expression. There had been so many similar young men over the years and most of them had looked like Jake.
“You don’t look like…” Jake swallowed hard, his eyes uneasily flicking from her face to her breasts. “I mean…You look nice. I don’t mean…”
“Jake,” Maggie said, “I know exactly what you mean. Come inside. I promise it will be just fine.” She reached for his arm, but he entered the lavish apartment without the need for her to touch him.
Jake stopped, standing restlessly in the center of the room. “This is really nice,” he said, looking anywhere but at her.
“Thanks. I’ve collected lots of treasures over the years. I enjoy having things around me that have special memories.” She crossed to a small white linen-and-lace butterfly that seemed to have settled in the corner of a framed photo of an old European village. “There’s a town in Belgium called Bruges. It looks like it hasn’t changed in four hundred years.” Jake walked over and looked over her shoulder, and she sensed his effort not to let any part of his body touch hers. “Wonderful old buildings,” she said softly, “churches that were old before our country ever thought about George Washington. I was there about six, no, seven years ago. They cater to tourists, of course, but the city is an old center for lace making and they still make some.” She ran the tip of her finger over the butterfly’s white lace wings.
“That’s real nice,” Jake said, tangling and untangling his fingers.
“And this,” she said, pointing to a smoothly carved statuette of a seal perched on a rock, “is a soapstone carving that I got in Anchorage a few years ago.” She picked up the six-inch-high stone piece and placed it in Jake’s hand. “I liked the shape, but what sold me was the way it felt in my hand the first time I held it.” She stroked the back of the seal. “Cool and so soft,” she said as Jake imitated her movement without actually touching her hand. She took the seal from him and replaced it on the mantel.
“Come on, Jake, let’s sit down. We can talk for a while. About anything you like.” Deliberately, she sat in a chair rather than on the long sofa. She watched Jake’s face relax as he sat on the end of the sofa nearest her chair, keeping his knees from touching hers. “Would you like a drink?” Maggie asked. “I have soda, wine, beer, whatever you might like.”
“Could I have a beer?” he asked, then cleared his throat.
“Sure. I have Bud, Miller, Miller light, and Sam Adams.” She grinned. “I sound like a waitress. Actually, to be honest, I did wait on tables many years ago.”
“What are you having?” Jake said.
“I thought I’d have a Sam Adams,” Maggie said.
Jake smiled tentatively. “Okay. Me too.”
Maggie walked into the kitchen of the large Madison Avenue apartment, knowing that Jake was watching her retreating ass, which was barely contained in the tight jeans she wore. Not bad for a broad on the far side of fifty, she thought as she opened two beers. She placed them on a tray, pulled two mugs out of the freezer, balanced the tray on her palm and returned to the living room. “See,” she grinned, holding the tray at shoulder level. “I used to be very good at this.” She twirled the tray, set it down on the coffee table and deftly poured two beers.
She handed Jake his drink, took a swallow of hers and resettled in her chair. She smiled as Jake took several large gulps of the cold liquid. “Gee,” he said, “this is nice.”
“Tell me about you,” Maggie said. “Your father tells me you’re at Yale.”
For the next fifteen minutes, as Jake visibly relaxed, they talked about Jake’s classes, his plans for the future, his social life at school. When they had finished their first round, Maggie went into the kitchen for two more beers. “I guess I don
’t date much,” Jake admitted as Maggie reentered the living room, the two fresh bottles on the tray, along with a large bowl of popcorn. “I’m not very good-looking either.” He ran a finger over his chin and through a few deep pits on his jawline.
“You’ll never be Paul Newman,” Maggie said softly, putting the tray on the coffee table. She prided herself on never lying to anyone. “But you do have his eyes.” Jake’s eyes were sky blue, deeply set, with long sandy lashes.
“I do?” Jake said. Then ducked his chin and quickly added, “Don’t bullshit me.”
“I’m not,” Maggie said, keeping her voice soft. “You’ve got beautiful eyes.” She moved to sit beside him on the sofa. “Would you like some popcorn?” She picked a piece from the bowl and held it in front of her mouth. “It’s very garlicky so I won’t have any if you’re not going to.”
Jake reached out to take a piece of popcorn, but Maggie held the one in her hand out for him. “Here, take this one,” she said.
He reached for it, taking it from her while barely skimming his fingertips over hers. He popped the piece of corn into his mouth. “This is really good,” he said, reaching for a handful.
“Aren’t you going to return the favor?” Maggie asked, raising one eyebrow. “You took my popcorn…”
Slowly he took a piece of popcorn from the bowl and held it out to her. She leaned over and took it from his fingertips with her teeth, nipping his index finger lightly. She watched him pull his hand back as though burned. “Do you know,” she said, swallowing, “that I met your father through a few of his friends when he was in college?”
“You’re kidding. That was a hundred years ago.”
“I was in business even then, back in the dark ages. I fought dinosaurs with one hand while keeping track of my customers on clay tablets.”
Jake looked sheepish. “I’m sorry.”
Maggie laughed, no trace of scorn, only rich warm enjoyment. “Don’t be. I know it seems like centuries, and maybe it was. But I did meet your father kind of like this.”
“He never told me how he knew you. I guess I thought he met you after Mom died.”
“He hadn’t even met your mom when I first knew him. A few of his fraternity brothers were, let’s just say, friends of mine. They dared him to visit me, even paid his way.” Maggie sat back on the sofa and rested her head on the back. She kicked off her shoes and, at her glance, Jake did the same. She ran her long fingers through her tight black curls. “My hair was naturally this color back then,” she remembered. “He was so cute. Scared to death, like you are now.”
“I’m not scared,” Jake protested.
“It’s all right to be nervous,” Maggie said. “I was living in a small apartment in Greenwich Village and he came to my place that first evening.” She giggled. “He spilled an entire bottle of Scotch on my sofa, as I recall.”
Jake laughed. “He did?”
“He offered to pour us each a drink, but his hands shook so much that he couldn’t get the top off the bottle. He twisted one last time, the top came off in his hand and, of course, the bottle was upside down. It took weeks to get the smell out of the upholstery.”
“I can’t picture my dad as a nervous teenager.”
“No one can picture others having the same fears, the same feelings of inadequacy they have. I remember a certain rock star who, well let’s just say, couldn’t get it up.”
“Who?”
“I never reveal any of the secrets I learn,” Maggie said. “But, if these walls could talk….”
“What did he do?” Jake asked, his eyes widening. “The rock star, I mean.”
“We sat and talked. Once he was comfortable with the fact I didn’t want anything from him, that he could do what he chose, he relaxed.” Maggie giggled. “We actually played spin the bottle. Then we made love. Several times, as I remember.’
“And my dad?”
“Uh, uh. No tales about anyone like that. How would you feel if I told him about you?”
Jake flinched. “Okay. Point made.”
“Is it warm in here?” Maggie asked, pulling her sweater off over her head. She smiled as she felt Jake gaze at her erect nipples, clearly visible through her white stretch tank top. “Why don’t you take off your jacket?”
Maggie didn’t move while Jake removed his sport jacket, his eyes never leaving her ample breasts. Without lifting her head from the back of the sofa, she turned to Jake. “You know what I’d like to do? How about some slow dancing.” She sat up and leaned forward, giving Jake a good view of her large breasts and deep cleavage. She reached for the remote control on the coffee table and pressed a button. As Michael Bolton’s voice filled the room, Maggie stood up and held her hands out to Jake. “Come on. Dance with me.”
Hesitantly, Jake stood up and walked around the coffee table. “I don’t dance much.”
“That’s really too bad,” Maggie said as she moved into Jake’s arms, keeping space between them. “I love slow dancing. It’s like making love to music.”
Jake placed one arm gingerly around Maggie’s waist and held her hand with the other. He slowly shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Relax,” Maggie said, leading him, helping him to move more gracefully. “You’re doing fine.” She pressed her body closer, so the tips of her nipples brushed his shirtfront. She felt him shiver, his hands trembling. She hummed along with the music, slowly moving closer until her mouth was against his ear, her chest pressed fully against his. His excitement was evident against her lower body. “This is so nice,” she said into his ear.
“Ummm, he purred, moving his feet with increasing sureness. “This is nice.”
“And we’re in no hurry,” Maggie whispered. As the songs changed, the two moved around the living room, locked in each other’s arms. She could feel his growing hunger and nursed it until she knew the time had come. “Would you like to kiss me?” she whispered, leaning away from Jake’s body.
Unable to answer, Jake pressed his mouth hard against Maggie’s.
“Soft,” she murmured as she cupped her hands against his cheeks and pulled back slightly, gentling the kiss, her feet still moving in time to the music. Her lips whispering against his, Maggie said, “Kissing and dancing. So good. So slow and soft.” She could feel his heavy breathing against her mouth and she kissed his cheek gently. She murmured soft nonsense words, kissed his face and ran the tip of her tongue over the skin of which he was so self-conscious. He tried to pull away, but her hands and the pressure of her body held him immobile.
Without breaking contact with his mouth, Maggie slid her hands between them, unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off of his shoulders. His chest was hairless and surprisingly smooth as she slid her palms over his skin. “I know you would like to feel my breasts against your body.” In one swift motion, she pulled her tank top over her head and, as they continued to dance, she rubbed her nipples over his skin. Minutes later, when she knew he was ready, she took his hands and placed them on her ribs. Her palms covering his, she guided his hands up her sides, to her breasts. “Yes,” she putted. “Hold them, feel them. Yes. Like that.”
His eyes watched his hands as his fingers played with her nipples, his breathing ragged, his feet still moving to the music. Maggie helped him, showing him where she wanted to be touched, how she liked to be pinched gently but firmly. Then she placed one finger under his chin and raised his face. She held his gaze and said, softly, “We will be a lot more comfortable in the other room.”
Both naked to the waist, the two walked into Maggie’s bedroom, Michael Bolton’s voice following them through the apartment. The bedroom was large, dominated by a king-size bed covered with a soft off-white satin spread and a dozen pillows in bright reds, blues, and violets. The thick carpet was white, covered by an area rug of a bright geometric design in the same colors. There were two white leather side chairs with matching hassocks and a lounge chair with a chrome frame and black leather webbing. Jake’s eyes widened. “I know,�
� Maggie said, her arm around Jake’s naked waist, “it’s a bit flashy. But it makes me happy.”
Jake turned to face the older woman. He tangled his fingers in her black curls. “You’re quite something,” he said. “And not what I expected at all.” He pressed his lips to hers, now more sure in his motions. “I want you.” He reached down and started to unzip his pants.
“Let me,” Maggie said, running her fingernails down his chest and moving his hands aside. She deftly unfastened his pants and, in one motion, pulled down both his slacks and his shorts until he stood naked except for his socks. She knelt and pulled them off, her eyes level with the stiff, hard erection that stuck straight out from Jake’s groin. She resisted the urge to take his hard cock into her mouth, knowing that their first time together should be plain vanilla. There would be time later to introduce Jake to the dozens of other pleasures she enjoyed.
“Would you like to undress me, or should I do it?” she asked.
Jake grinned and held his trembling hands in front of him. “I think you’d better.”
Quickly she pulled off her jeans, panties and socks and led Jake to the bed. She stretched out on the spread and patted the space next to her. “Come here, darling. Let’s try slow dancing this way.” He lay beside her and she placed the soles of her feet against his insteps. Slowly she slid their feet over the satin spread, keeping the rhythm they had established in the living room. “Slow dancing isn’t just for standing up.” She wrapped one arm around him and took his hand with the other, holding him just as if they were dancing. She moved against him until the length of her body was against the length of his. Quickly she took a condom from the bedtable drawer and deftly unrolled it over Jake’s throbbing cock. Then she maneuvered so her body was beneath his, her legs spread, the tip of his erection against the soaked folds of her entrance. “Yes?” she whispered. “Do you want me?”
“Oh, yes,” he moaned.
“Then you know what to do.”
Flesh For Fantasy Page 2
