Maggie 4.8 (Patreon)

Using the keys Jesse had given Maggie, he let himself back into the theater, worked his way across the stage, went along to the prop room.

The fluorescent light buzzed overhead still, the flicker gone with the lights warm. Looking down at the spot where he and Maggie had sex he gave a little laugh. Right at the doorway. Room full of props to fuck on, they couldn’t wait, did it right up against the door they’d closed behind them.

In the prop room, there were all sorts of things that had been built for performances through the years. Near the back sat a box the size of a steamer trunk. It had handles on both ends, long wooden poles that reached out from the sides. It was supposed to be the Ark of the Covenant or something; vaguely holy looking, with gilded edges and drawn symbols. It was light, only made to look heavy. Still, with the long poles that sprouted from either end, the thing proved awkward to get down the hall once he passed the stage. Got it there without breaking it, stuffed it in the Jeep, but had to pull the roof back for it to fit. Jesse was lucky it was a nice day.

A funny warmth spread through him as he inched through university traffic, making him heavy, sinking him into the Jeep’s bouncy bucket seat. A warm satisfaction. Sore from his workout, but rewarded with some muscular tightness, sexually charged and simultaneously drained. Satiated maybe. Satiated and yet hungry for his next meal. Sunglasses on, top down on the Jeep, he eyed girls as they walked along the paths by the roadside. So many young hot girls and yet, in his first year, he’d found the gem. Long legs in jeans, skirts, shorts even on this warm fall day. He’d got his share in high school. The girls were fun to look at and a good chunk of them might be half-decent in bed.

Young Max Milton however, one fine fall evening almost three years ago, met a beautiful, bubbly, Asian girl, and it was frankly love at first sight. In two months at Farmingham he’d only had sex with one college girl but after he met Maggie, he didn’t want anyone else. She was smart, talented, demure yet uninhibited in bed, she was kind, she was wealthy. Now it turned out she was as dark as he was, as into the things that he would never have asked for in his life as he was. Her sexual gifts to him were enormous. None of the girls on the street could hold a match to his fiancée. All she’d needed was a gentle pushing.

It was out of Brattleboro, somewhere an hour down the densely forested road into the mountains that his warmth was washed out by a cold dread. Working over all that happened during their morning his heart began to race. Not in a good way. The tips of his fingers tingled and his breaths came fast like he was hyperventilating. There were no cars around so he pulled to the gravel shoulder and stopped. He gripped the wheel, focused his mind on what the panic was. He was awash with shame and regret...and something else. It was the something else that was driving his heart faster and faster.

Fear. It was fear he had.

“Shit, Maggie,” he hissed into the Jeep. Shit. He’d told her to jerk off a stranger. Dirty talk. Dirty talk when his cock was hard and inside her and he was filled with bubbling lust at the awful thing they had done together. Now in the daylight, sitting alone without her, he was panicking. He didn’t want that. It was a sexy thought, but he didn’t really want that. She had to know. She knew it was dirty talk, right?

But did she? What were the rules these days Maxy-boy? You let her fuck the hottest guy on the planet. Let her fuck your panty-melting best friend. Those were things that should just be dirty talk. But they were bitter reality now.

A truck loaded with timber roared by and buffeted the Jeep, the interior swirling with dust and grit. The freight train sound jangled his nerves, made his heart pound even more furiously.

With the radio not working he had his phone tucked into the cup holder and one earbud stuck in an ear. Yanking it out, he gathered up his phone and shot her off a text. He waited but no reply came. He sent another.

She knew better. She wouldn’t do that. Maggie was no slut, not for real.

Not til you came along, Max.

He put the Jeep back in first, let it out and rolled back onto the Number 9, headed for Farmingham.

* * *

Not far from the city she woke from a dreamy nap. The view outside of the window had changed from lush greenery to brick-faced Boston outskirts. Looking around groggily she saw not much had changed with her compatriots. The grandmother across from her was further into her book, the dad typed away on an old Thinkpad, the guy from comicon was finished his Superboy and now sat listening to music with his arms crossed.

Her mouth was dry, so she licked her lips. She had drooled it would seem, and she wiped at her chin. Superboy gazed absently downward, and she followed to see her bare legs. The skirt had ridden up while she slumped sleepily and the hem slipped above mid-thigh. Squirming back with haste, her eyes went wide at the thought that her sex could have been revealed. It was very close. It should be arousing—if she and Max were dirty-talking she would have been excited at the prospect. Two things: maybe she needed Max present as a witness, or perhaps she needed a more provocative voyeur. This guy with his wispy mustache, while not reprehensible, did not set her on fire.

Her iPad sat on the table, face up, screen blank, but she did not remember putting it there. Last thing she remembered she was studying, reading about Toulouse-Lautrec, the next she’s waking with her pussy almost bared and drool coming out of her mouth. How the mighty have fallen. She retrieved the iPad, brought it to life, saw messages from her Max.

Maxy: Don’t do it, Maggie. You know that was dirty talk.

Don’t do what? What was he talking about?

Maxy: Maggie. Seriously.

She looked out the window, frowning, trying to imagine what he was freaked out about. It hit her.

Jerk off a stranger, Maggie.

As if she would do that. Her Max was freaking out now, and it was pretty amusing. Half an hour after those two texts he had texted again.

Maxy: Okay. You’re being funny. ha ha.

This one made her laugh silently, hard enough that her shoulders began to shake. It would be so easy to respond with, Ha ha, get real! Or, I know, I love you, miss you already, Maxy! Instead, with a wicked smile, she slipped her iPad into her black bag under her seat and watched the city go by. They were almost at the train station.

* * *

She bought a Summer’s Eve douche at the South Station drugstore in Boston. What had her life become?

Then, in another effort to salvage some of her dignity, she slipped into the ladies room before her train arrived and put some goddamn panties on. But on the platform, while waiting for the train to Rhode Island, she saw a hunk.

He wore a suit in Glen plaid, shining caramel Brogues, a real live flower in his lapel. He had tanned skin and a young, rugged face; his hair was perfect, short back and sides, top combed back, thick and wavy, chestnut brown with blonde highlights from the sun. He stood reading a New York Times held in one hand, a leather briefcase that matched his shoes in the other. The kind of young man every woman on this platform was giving furtive looks.

Checking her messages on her phone—pretending to—she snapped a picture of him.

Now she texted Max.

Maggie: Come on, Max. Don’t back out. It’s so hot. Imagine it.

She tucked her phone in her pocket, laughing to herself.

She caught the hunk’s eye now, and he looked her up and down, smiled and nodded. A little thrill whipped through her.

Now, were she to wake and find him staring at her accidentally exposed vagina the effect would definitely be different. What would that have been like? Deathly embarrassing, Maggie, be honest. Truth was, had she woken, saw him staring at her between her legs she would have been mortified. He was almost too sexy.

What if he smiled and nodded after he'd seen her pussy? Hmmm? That was interesting. Suppose she was embarrassed and yet he consoled her. God, maybe he would hold her gaze while he reached over and one of those masculine, tanned hands gently lowered her skirt so it sat where a lady’s skirt should sit. Her hand went to her mouth to cover her ridiculous smile, and she shied away from the hunk.

When the train arrived she purposely got herself into a different car.

* * *

Never in her life had she a one-night stand. Or a tryst. Never had sex with a stranger. That was something that hadn't interested her. Other girls had talked about it. Not to her, but it was something she couldn't escape overhearing. The idea of being with a stranger was scary. That handsome man on the platform was drop-dead gorgeous, but what if he was a weirdo? Didn't look like a weirdo, did he? Nope. He looked smart and successful, like he knew what he was doing in the boardroom and the bedroom. Like he might discipline her, make her bend to his sexual will.

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. 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 pleine aire, 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 incredible. 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 nap, 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

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.