Maggie 2.11 (Patreon)

She sat through two tastings at two different restaurants without underwear. While she was planning her wedding, all her attention focused 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 on 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. Just hormonal blips, moments in time when her body craved masculinity via ancient fertility processes. 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. Or wander. 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. Max liked to be challenged, liked to be humiliated. She 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, with 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 Ossetra. 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. Max 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, a small hillock of Russian caviar in the pearly bowl. Faces were turned. She held Cole’s hand steady, opened her mouth, looked in Cole’s eyes while he deposited caviar onto her waiting tongue. She tasted the salty fish eggs, sucked her lips while everyone waited for her opinion. “We have to have the caviar.” Her father nodded.

Hand shaking, she poured a half glass of Chardonnay. She needed to get out of here. Needed to get home, get down to the beach and touch Cole’s body. Feel his hands on her. She sipped the wine, watching Cole’s masculine hand 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. He lifted, then tilted the shell to his lip. The muscles of his neck and face worked as he consumed the slippery oyster. He sucked 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 gorgeous Best Man, with his strong 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 Cole. He moved the shell to her lips while everyone watched this travesty. Cole fed her his oyster and she slurped it down with grace, her eyes on his. He watched her as she chewed twice and swallowed. He put the empty shell on his plate, scooted closer in his chair and leaned to tell her something. She covered her mouth, leaning in to hear it, watching everyone’s face as they waited to hear what she thought of the oyster.

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

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

“Is it good?” Valerie asked. Her face was looking a little worn now. Late in the day, and Maggie liked to think this heat between the bride-to-be and the Best Man was starting to worry the woman.

“God,” Maggie said. “It’s good. It’s so good. Wow. If you’ll excuse me.” She left the table at a polite speed and trotted to the washroom, cheeks burning.

* * *

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. But she had no idea Cole 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, elegant bathroom. So glad now that Max had slowed them down. Max 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 had been quite convinced she would not go all the way with Jay. Right now, looking in this mirror, looking in her own amber eyes, there was nothing that would stop her from having sex with Cole Cantarella. Nothing. She was ravenous.

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

When she stepped into the hall Cole was there, leaning against a mahogany-paneled wall, elbow on a marble-topped table with a bountiful bouquet 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 mouth coming up in a confident angle. Her smirk was less confident.

Cole eased off the table and sauntered the three steps to come to her, put a hand on the wall behind her, looking down on her, and making 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. Cole’s hand worked in his pocket while his eyes still held hers. He brought out her bunched panties in his grip, 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,” Cole said, tucking her panties back into his jacket pocket.

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. Cole’s 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 on the cable-knit tights.

She whispered, “What are you doing?”

Cole 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 hip. Her legs began to tremble.

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

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

Using just the pad of his middle finger, Cole explored her Venus shapes, tracing the cleft in her shaved mound, tickling high along her commissure where it crested above her hood. Then plumping the 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. She could feel how slick she was in the warm easy movement of Cole’s fingertip. He stroked so lightly it tickled, 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, eyes closing now, concentrating on the erotic feel of Cole’s 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 centre 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,” Cole said. He eased his hand up her belly and out of her tights. Her skirt fell. Cole touched her mouth with the middle finger, slipping it along her lower lip. It was slick with her excitement. She could smell her wet sex on him. Cole parted her lips 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 to hold his wrist.

“He tell you?”

She nodded again.

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

She nodded and smiled, laughing 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 with great enthusiasm.

Cole’s other hand stopped her from stroking his cock. 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 Carol to know what you’re going to take tonight? Want her to know her precious little good girl is—”

The door opened at the end of the hallway’s 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 mouth, and she wiped her mouth dry with both her hands.

They stayed quiet, unmoving. Waited for the waiter to pass. He did, his eyes averted, and then he was into the restaurant.

Cole kissed her lips when the waiter was gone, and her hands came up, nails scratching across his stubble. He sucked her lip, pinched it with his and pulled it away, looking in her eyes. He winked, licked his lips, then went past her into the bathroom.

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered, alone in the empty hall. She straightened her tights and adjusted her skirt, dried her mouth again and returned to the table.