Maggie's Story
Copyright 2004, R V Raiment
(rvraiment@yahoo.com)
By R V Raiment.
“Every time is a miracle to her. That she should know this intimacy, for all her life a taboo, and derive such joy
from it, still astounds her, leaves her mind and senses reeling.
Men she has known, and enjoyed, but this woman beside her, this almost mirror image of her, slightly older,
slightly ampler, with sweet soft mounds, pert brown nipples and moist, warm valleys, fulfils in her needs she once
and for too long did not guess she had.
As she props herself on one elbow, moving cautiously so as not to disturb the gently dozing form behind her and
lights an illicit cigarette, she seeks to understand.
It is not invasiveness. It is not that being possessed, that thrusting of hot full cock into a cunt too often not quite
moist enough, or the into the ass her man has bruised. Her lover’s hand, her long plump fingers, have slid into
the willing lubrication of her ready femininity and have pleasured her intensely. And more, the double-headed
dildo with which they’ve fucked so wonderfully, face to face, mouth to mouth, tongues and toy in glorious mobile
union, was such a joy.
Was that possession though? Was either? When she did the same things to herself, making good the lack of
the once unimagined and unimaginable other, slid fingers into herself, dildo and vibrator into herself, did she,
then, possess herself?
Perhaps not. But the strap-on? That was different. That was her, bending forward, kneeling face down on the
bed, mouth to the pillow and ready to bite in anguish, her whole body tense with a subtle dread that first time.
That was her in a position of supplication, of total submission, presenting to her lover that incongruous view of
herself that in any other circumstance could only mean humiliation. That was her ass cheeks drawing, under
their own gentle weight, softly apart, displaying to the unseen world, in the form of the woman behind her, that
last and final vulnerability, that puckered little halo of her anus.
She had squealed within and muffled it without as the soft, motherly fingers of her lover had gently kneaded there
and gently pressed, slipping the lube inside her. She had squirmed in her gut even in willing indignity, terrified of
what might be found there, in that last unmentionable, terrible place.
A sweet, warm voice, then sweet warm hands alighting on her back and stroking, gentling, followed by the
butting, bunting hardness, chill with lube, touching so intimately, pressing so intimately and so slowly, warm hands
now on her hips, holding her steady, warm voice in her ears, bidding her calm. Then that strange fullness, that
peculiar pressure, that betrayal of muscles so trained to expel and the sweet, soft, full thrusting she met with a
moan of exquisite concession.
Tears had come to her eyes, yes, but of neither the pain nor the humiliation that the lusting male penis had
brought her. Tears of warmth and gratitude, of joy and completion.
When those hands came to her breasts, tweaked and played her nipples to an exquisite pain of erection, her
lover’s thighs and abdomen slapping her own legs and ass, and when those hands descended, so silkily sliding,
to the ready pink button already weeping with wanting, surely that was possession? And she loved it. She
adored it.
Sheened already with a sweat of heat and exertion, that last touching of fingers so gently beneath her, that
subtle caress, had brought her fast, flooding. A torrent of wanting so long pent-up surging, came drenching her
thighs and her sweet lover’s hand, and they’d collapsed laughing and gasping together, the toy now an
encumbrance in the way of their hugging, their gentling and kissing, their sleeping embraced.
Surely her lover had possessed her, no less than a man. More than a man, then?
What was it with her man, she wondered, and those she’d known before him, that left her so empty? What was it
in them that failed to make connection, that failed so to reach her?
And why didn’t he, her sweet writer, fail? How was he different?
Was it that fabled feminine side and his being ‘in touch with it’ that kept her so eager? Was it, as he ventured,
that the qualities combine in every body in different measure, making gender a spectrum with all shades
between?
Yet he was her miracle too, and that was undoubted. Not merely tolerant of her bisexuality but loving her for it,
revering her difference, even accommodating it as he did today.
Squeezing the life in the cigarette to ashes, she glances at the clock and turns to her lover. Three o’clock, now,
and her coffee will be waiting.”
The story scarce finished, and Michael is laughing, and it is not the laugh that she likes, is familiar with and has
known throughout twelve years of marriage.
The laugh she likes is full of warm memories, and hasn’t changed perceptibly since they first met, and is the
laugh of Christmases together and with their children, of birthday parties, anniversaries, movies and TV
comedies shared. It is the laugh he has for memories of averted disasters, like the day they packed everything
into the SUV for the camping trip and embarked, only to have to return to pick up little Mikey, still playing
obliviously in the back yard sand-tray.
The laugh she hears now is not the laugh he has for the remembered day in the desert night when, so
reluctantly, she gave in to desperation and climbed out of the car for a pee, confident of the darkness and
isolation. Scarcely had she got her panties off and her skirt rolled up around her waist when another car - in
which a couple had been making out and which was parked barely a hundred yards away in the darkness -
snapped-on its lights in preparation for departure and floodlit the moons of her ass and her golden stream for all
the world to see.
This is an altogether different laugh, a sneering, derisive laugh that turns his face into a mask disconcertingly
unfamiliar to her. This laugh barely masks the hostility in his voice:
“You have got to be kidding!”
“Why?”
“She walks into her male lover’s apartment with a broad on her arm, yes? And her lover, this writer-guy, looks up
from his PC, and she tells him she is taking the broad to bed with her, and he lets her? And makes them fucking
coffee after? That’s just too stupid.”
“Why?” She already knows what his answer will be, asks perhaps in the hope of a miracle, perhaps to confirm
that her conviction does not do him injustice.
“What kind of man would allow his lover to take another woman into his bed and screw with her? I mean, at least
he would want to watch, for Chrissakes.”
“Not every man is the same, Mike. I think it is a nice story.”
“I thought these people wrote erotica, Maggie, not fairytales. Who wrote it anyway?”
“No one you’ve heard before.”
“I can believe that. Nothing on the list from that guy with the bird-of-prey handle – Falcon, Eagle, or something?
His stuff rocks.”
“Not this week, no.”
“Pity.”
“So you really don’t believe a guy could be that tolerant?”
“Shit no. You know what I think, anyway. Marriage is for life and for making babies and having fun, one with
another. You don’t bring outsiders into that. It’s not right, not moral.”
She has heard his arguments for monogamy many times before, and his anti-gay sentiments too. She has
wondered often, though, about his ideas of having fun. Once a week wasn’t always enough. And when it used to
be more than once a week it was at least a little more than his emptying himself and his need into her, grinning at
her for the pleasure he was certain he’d given her and then turning over to sleep.
Was that the price, she wondered, of a solid marriage, as theirs had been solid? Was that the price of that
endless accommodation so many call sharing, where to keep things smooth, partners set aside all the little
bumps along the way and pretend they do not matter?
Bigger things and little things. His nights out with the boys, undertaken irrespective of her need when she was
hungry for him, the degree she set aside so that she could work and pay his way through college. The music she
can only listen to when he is not sitting there and frowning in perplexity at her different taste. The plain colours
on the wall that are not of Maggie’s choosing. The weekend duty visits to his folks while her Mom sits at home
and waits.
She prefers tea, he likes coffee, and making both in hurried moments before his departure or after dinner, when
he wants her at his side on the lounge sofa in front of the TV, was a chore. So now she drinks tea alone, in her
own time, shares a pot of coffee with him and sleeps the worse for it. And drinking coffee in front of the TV she
watches mostly what he wants to watch, glamorous, shallow, escapist stuff that takes his mind from his
demanding work, or endless ball games.
She can catch the re-runs of the cult comedies, news, politics and arts programmes she prefers, and he cannot
because of his work. It is fair. Odd, though, how often the screen fills with pouting lips, yawning cleavages, and
writhing bodies where the focus is ever on the female lest – Heaven help us – one might catch a glimpse of a
dangling penis. Odd how focused he is on these manifestations of yearning women, despite that he admits to no
fantasies for anyone but her.
Does he want that girl, there? Does he look at that sweet, soft-focus ass that is ten years, maybe, younger than
hers, and wish he could explore its warm curvaceous-ness? Does this sweet, loyal man commit, as the Good
Book has it, adultery with his eyes and heart, whilst denying that infidelity can ever be just?
Not a thing in the scene that the director has not put there entirely on purpose. Not an item of furniture, not a
shade of light or colour or tone, not an angle of view. And she, the girl, is there for why? Because she has a
body, hair, a face, eyes, lips, tits, even the muff she just glimpsed as the girl gets up to go to the bathroom, which
send out exactly the signals, trigger exactly the responses, that the director wants. And Mike does not respond
to this? He says not.
“I only want you, darling. Ever.”
Is that possible? Is that – Christ, can that possibly be – right? But his certainty renders her doubts and
questions impotent, tiny hands beating on a tight-shut door.
If only she felt as he did. As he appears to do. But she does not.
He was not the first, for her. She had her explorations. And one of those so long ago had been joyous – a long
and slender, gentle youth whose eyes smiled in sweetest synchrony with his lips and who adored her. He adored
her with his heart and mind, bewildering her that she could so preoccupy both, that he could think so much of
her, and he adored her with his body.
For too long, now, it had been those warm remembered arms she had turned to in her head in the quiet age that
remained after Mike set her aside, he sated, she sticky and yearning, empty and longing.
She remembered the soft nibbling kisses on her ears, so sensitive to them that she could not but writhe and duck
as if to escape something she so much treasured, followed by kisses to her forehead, the bridge of her nose, her
eyelids too, shuttered closed to hold in all that sweet warmth of sensation with which he filled her. Her cheeks,
her chin, the column of her neck. Kisses descending, steadily, hands unbuttoning her shirt, reaching round to
unclasp her bra.
Soft nibbling now on the breasts she felt too small yet he adored, hardening her teats, making each envious of
the other as he clasped the one between his lips, held it between guarded teeth and licked and flicked.
Hands at her waistband, unbuttoning the skirt she always wore for him and which buttoned from waist to hem,
unfastening the side ties of the briefs she wore for him, so that skirt and briefs simply folded open, like petals of a
flower. No hiatus, no clumsy waiting for him to draw clothes over her feet, but nakedness on a bed of skirt and
silk panties, waiting his still descending kisses.
He traces her breast bone with his lips and tongue, trails kisses along the gentle curve of belly, drawing ever
nearer. Her breathing changes as he draws closer, every breath held and savoured as long as she can hold it,
whilst the imposed stillness of her body seems to tighten every nerve, until he draws so close that her breathing
grows faster, as if mimicking the rhythm of the pulse within her clit.
Warm and wet, prickling and electric, even the tiny hairs of her would reach out to him, seek to embrace the lips
and tongue that sought to embrace her.
And there, suddenly, warmer, wetter, his questing tongue matching wetness to wetness in the soft moist heat of
that tiny nest, flicking and licking at that third tiny teat, peeking coyly from her folds.
He would never stop till she dragged him by the hair, she squealing almost in her want, and he’d be there smiling,
eyes and lips, his lovely slender cock sweetly sliding into her, filling her, as she clutched at him, with urgent
muscle and tissue, hot and thirsty for his quenching.
How odd to taste herself on the lips that descended to her, and how sweet, and how sweet, too, his breath, as
their mouths meshed and the very undulation of their lungs connected, worked in concert. That warm, probing
weight, pubis grinding softly on pubis, and the slow acceleration so controlled until she could wait no longer and
clutched at his ass in desperation. Then the thrusting, hot, hard, pounding, the glorious friction of cock in cunt,
and so often that mutual surging, his gasps, her squeals sucked into each other.
Afterwards, guilt. Not then, but now, with her handsome husband gently snoring at her side and innocent of her
secret pleasures. Thank god for the absence of telepathy, that the lonely infidelity could be accomplished
without his knowing, without his being angry, feeling cheated.
It was she who had felt cheated, now, too often. It was she regretted that what had been, so long ago, was gone.
But for all that he had given her there was one thing Max had refused to give, and, then, with the ideals and fixed
ideas of youth she had not known how to handle it. He had said:
“I don’t want to be anyone’s exclusively, my love. I love too much, too easily, desire too much.”
It had taken a while to sink in. Though not his way to sleep around promiscuously, he revelled in the presence of
a number of close female friends and seemed to want to keep it that way, forever. And he had arguments,
carefully considered, with which he disposed, to his own satisfaction, of many of the rules and mores, of the fixed
monogamous perceptions which were then society’s and her own.
He had said he did not want to be owned, or to own. He had said any love of his would be free to take a lover,
whenever she wished, just so long as she was happy and was safe. And it tore her apart. For, yes, she wanted
to be owned, exclusively, and to own, exclusively. Nothing else, it seemed to her, could be safe.
Only now she had met him again.
She’d been sitting in a coffee shop, that day, contemplating the exhausted froth in the empty cup the waitress
had not removed and waiting for her tea to arrive, cross-examining herself, her most recent infidelity weighing
heavy on her mind. It had happened. She had found a lover who was not Mike, a lover who was married as she
was, stifled as she was, awake as she was to a newly discovered hunger.
And it had been – was still – glorious. And it had been – was still – frightening. Should Mike find out…
“Maggie?”
“Max!”
He had been married, she discovered, and un-married, once, pressured too long and too hard to concede to all
that the world seemed to want, and was now single again, living in an apartment here in town. He was a graphic
artist, now, and quite successful, and he looked it. He seemed barely to have changed at all and, she
discovered, he very much hadn’t.
“So you still believe in all that?” she had asked him near the end.
“I always have, really. For a while I allowed myself to be persuaded that I was wrong, was married, and watched
what we had suffocate in our trying to be everything to each other. She kept telling me I was all that she wanted,
yet what I was she wanted me to change.”
Maggie did not argue now. Instead she had told him everything, and she had found it easy. His smile still
reflected in eyes and mouth, was still so much the same, and the magnetism he exuded for her, she discovered,
had not changed.
Pondering one infidelity, she found herself drawn, gently but irresistibly, into another. At his apartment it had
been the same, exactly the same, as it had been those years ago and so many nights in fantasy, and afterwards
she wept.
Mike considers the subject closed and has chores to do in the garden, so Maggie reads from the beginning
again, still trying to find herself, to find a self she can love:
"His head lifted to the sound of the key in the lock and he rose from his workstation, stepped to the opening door
to greet her.
“You’ve met Katherine,” she says, by way of introduction, and he turns to the woman on her arm, offers his left
hand so that she can shake it without disengaging. The smile in his eyes mirrors the smile on his lips as he bids
her welcome, happy to see the two of them together, happy at the new fulfilment of his lover.
Her smile is full, almost joyous, her eyes sparkling, because she has Katherine with her and they are safe from
prying eyes and questioning tongues, and because here, with him, it feels so deliciously naughty too. And whilst
she knows that Katherine has had reservations she knows that she has come to understand and that the two she
loves most in the world are fast becoming friends:
“We’ll be a little while, my love.”
Again his smile, a nod:
“Of course.” And he glances up at the clock: “Coffee at about three?”
“You’re sure?”
“Why not?”
“That would be great.”
He does not express curiosity, though he has congratulated both of them sweetly and politely on their taste and
obvious affinity, and there is nothing in his gaze or in any of his words of speculation about their love-making. If
the thought of his lover with her tongue at the older woman’s clit, or of Katherine’s on hers or her mouth round
her nipples means anything to him, he shows not a sign of it. It is simply what she wants, and, therefore, it is
right".
Maggie is sorry about Mike; sorry about the secrets she keeps, grateful that the pseudonym, the gentle
substitutions of coffee for tea and Max’s art for writing, help prevent Mike from knowing that the story is hers, and
in the quiet hiatus of her unwitting husband’s absence Maggie sends swift soft emails to her lovers.
Copyright 2004, R V Raiment (rvraiment@yahoo.com)
All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or in part without written permission from the
author.
Copyright 2004, R V Raiment
(rvraiment@yahoo.com)
By R V Raiment.
“Every time is a miracle to her. That she should know this intimacy, for all her life a taboo, and derive such joy
from it, still astounds her, leaves her mind and senses reeling.
Men she has known, and enjoyed, but this woman beside her, this almost mirror image of her, slightly older,
slightly ampler, with sweet soft mounds, pert brown nipples and moist, warm valleys, fulfils in her needs she once
and for too long did not guess she had.
As she props herself on one elbow, moving cautiously so as not to disturb the gently dozing form behind her and
lights an illicit cigarette, she seeks to understand.
It is not invasiveness. It is not that being possessed, that thrusting of hot full cock into a cunt too often not quite
moist enough, or the into the ass her man has bruised. Her lover’s hand, her long plump fingers, have slid into
the willing lubrication of her ready femininity and have pleasured her intensely. And more, the double-headed
dildo with which they’ve fucked so wonderfully, face to face, mouth to mouth, tongues and toy in glorious mobile
union, was such a joy.
Was that possession though? Was either? When she did the same things to herself, making good the lack of
the once unimagined and unimaginable other, slid fingers into herself, dildo and vibrator into herself, did she,
then, possess herself?
Perhaps not. But the strap-on? That was different. That was her, bending forward, kneeling face down on the
bed, mouth to the pillow and ready to bite in anguish, her whole body tense with a subtle dread that first time.
That was her in a position of supplication, of total submission, presenting to her lover that incongruous view of
herself that in any other circumstance could only mean humiliation. That was her ass cheeks drawing, under
their own gentle weight, softly apart, displaying to the unseen world, in the form of the woman behind her, that
last and final vulnerability, that puckered little halo of her anus.
She had squealed within and muffled it without as the soft, motherly fingers of her lover had gently kneaded there
and gently pressed, slipping the lube inside her. She had squirmed in her gut even in willing indignity, terrified of
what might be found there, in that last unmentionable, terrible place.
A sweet, warm voice, then sweet warm hands alighting on her back and stroking, gentling, followed by the
butting, bunting hardness, chill with lube, touching so intimately, pressing so intimately and so slowly, warm hands
now on her hips, holding her steady, warm voice in her ears, bidding her calm. Then that strange fullness, that
peculiar pressure, that betrayal of muscles so trained to expel and the sweet, soft, full thrusting she met with a
moan of exquisite concession.
Tears had come to her eyes, yes, but of neither the pain nor the humiliation that the lusting male penis had
brought her. Tears of warmth and gratitude, of joy and completion.
When those hands came to her breasts, tweaked and played her nipples to an exquisite pain of erection, her
lover’s thighs and abdomen slapping her own legs and ass, and when those hands descended, so silkily sliding,
to the ready pink button already weeping with wanting, surely that was possession? And she loved it. She
adored it.
Sheened already with a sweat of heat and exertion, that last touching of fingers so gently beneath her, that
subtle caress, had brought her fast, flooding. A torrent of wanting so long pent-up surging, came drenching her
thighs and her sweet lover’s hand, and they’d collapsed laughing and gasping together, the toy now an
encumbrance in the way of their hugging, their gentling and kissing, their sleeping embraced.
Surely her lover had possessed her, no less than a man. More than a man, then?
What was it with her man, she wondered, and those she’d known before him, that left her so empty? What was it
in them that failed to make connection, that failed so to reach her?
And why didn’t he, her sweet writer, fail? How was he different?
Was it that fabled feminine side and his being ‘in touch with it’ that kept her so eager? Was it, as he ventured,
that the qualities combine in every body in different measure, making gender a spectrum with all shades
between?
Yet he was her miracle too, and that was undoubted. Not merely tolerant of her bisexuality but loving her for it,
revering her difference, even accommodating it as he did today.
Squeezing the life in the cigarette to ashes, she glances at the clock and turns to her lover. Three o’clock, now,
and her coffee will be waiting.”
The story scarce finished, and Michael is laughing, and it is not the laugh that she likes, is familiar with and has
known throughout twelve years of marriage.
The laugh she likes is full of warm memories, and hasn’t changed perceptibly since they first met, and is the
laugh of Christmases together and with their children, of birthday parties, anniversaries, movies and TV
comedies shared. It is the laugh he has for memories of averted disasters, like the day they packed everything
into the SUV for the camping trip and embarked, only to have to return to pick up little Mikey, still playing
obliviously in the back yard sand-tray.
The laugh she hears now is not the laugh he has for the remembered day in the desert night when, so
reluctantly, she gave in to desperation and climbed out of the car for a pee, confident of the darkness and
isolation. Scarcely had she got her panties off and her skirt rolled up around her waist when another car - in
which a couple had been making out and which was parked barely a hundred yards away in the darkness -
snapped-on its lights in preparation for departure and floodlit the moons of her ass and her golden stream for all
the world to see.
This is an altogether different laugh, a sneering, derisive laugh that turns his face into a mask disconcertingly
unfamiliar to her. This laugh barely masks the hostility in his voice:
“You have got to be kidding!”
“Why?”
“She walks into her male lover’s apartment with a broad on her arm, yes? And her lover, this writer-guy, looks up
from his PC, and she tells him she is taking the broad to bed with her, and he lets her? And makes them fucking
coffee after? That’s just too stupid.”
“Why?” She already knows what his answer will be, asks perhaps in the hope of a miracle, perhaps to confirm
that her conviction does not do him injustice.
“What kind of man would allow his lover to take another woman into his bed and screw with her? I mean, at least
he would want to watch, for Chrissakes.”
“Not every man is the same, Mike. I think it is a nice story.”
“I thought these people wrote erotica, Maggie, not fairytales. Who wrote it anyway?”
“No one you’ve heard before.”
“I can believe that. Nothing on the list from that guy with the bird-of-prey handle – Falcon, Eagle, or something?
His stuff rocks.”
“Not this week, no.”
“Pity.”
“So you really don’t believe a guy could be that tolerant?”
“Shit no. You know what I think, anyway. Marriage is for life and for making babies and having fun, one with
another. You don’t bring outsiders into that. It’s not right, not moral.”
She has heard his arguments for monogamy many times before, and his anti-gay sentiments too. She has
wondered often, though, about his ideas of having fun. Once a week wasn’t always enough. And when it used to
be more than once a week it was at least a little more than his emptying himself and his need into her, grinning at
her for the pleasure he was certain he’d given her and then turning over to sleep.
Was that the price, she wondered, of a solid marriage, as theirs had been solid? Was that the price of that
endless accommodation so many call sharing, where to keep things smooth, partners set aside all the little
bumps along the way and pretend they do not matter?
Bigger things and little things. His nights out with the boys, undertaken irrespective of her need when she was
hungry for him, the degree she set aside so that she could work and pay his way through college. The music she
can only listen to when he is not sitting there and frowning in perplexity at her different taste. The plain colours
on the wall that are not of Maggie’s choosing. The weekend duty visits to his folks while her Mom sits at home
and waits.
She prefers tea, he likes coffee, and making both in hurried moments before his departure or after dinner, when
he wants her at his side on the lounge sofa in front of the TV, was a chore. So now she drinks tea alone, in her
own time, shares a pot of coffee with him and sleeps the worse for it. And drinking coffee in front of the TV she
watches mostly what he wants to watch, glamorous, shallow, escapist stuff that takes his mind from his
demanding work, or endless ball games.
She can catch the re-runs of the cult comedies, news, politics and arts programmes she prefers, and he cannot
because of his work. It is fair. Odd, though, how often the screen fills with pouting lips, yawning cleavages, and
writhing bodies where the focus is ever on the female lest – Heaven help us – one might catch a glimpse of a
dangling penis. Odd how focused he is on these manifestations of yearning women, despite that he admits to no
fantasies for anyone but her.
Does he want that girl, there? Does he look at that sweet, soft-focus ass that is ten years, maybe, younger than
hers, and wish he could explore its warm curvaceous-ness? Does this sweet, loyal man commit, as the Good
Book has it, adultery with his eyes and heart, whilst denying that infidelity can ever be just?
Not a thing in the scene that the director has not put there entirely on purpose. Not an item of furniture, not a
shade of light or colour or tone, not an angle of view. And she, the girl, is there for why? Because she has a
body, hair, a face, eyes, lips, tits, even the muff she just glimpsed as the girl gets up to go to the bathroom, which
send out exactly the signals, trigger exactly the responses, that the director wants. And Mike does not respond
to this? He says not.
“I only want you, darling. Ever.”
Is that possible? Is that – Christ, can that possibly be – right? But his certainty renders her doubts and
questions impotent, tiny hands beating on a tight-shut door.
If only she felt as he did. As he appears to do. But she does not.
He was not the first, for her. She had her explorations. And one of those so long ago had been joyous – a long
and slender, gentle youth whose eyes smiled in sweetest synchrony with his lips and who adored her. He adored
her with his heart and mind, bewildering her that she could so preoccupy both, that he could think so much of
her, and he adored her with his body.
For too long, now, it had been those warm remembered arms she had turned to in her head in the quiet age that
remained after Mike set her aside, he sated, she sticky and yearning, empty and longing.
She remembered the soft nibbling kisses on her ears, so sensitive to them that she could not but writhe and duck
as if to escape something she so much treasured, followed by kisses to her forehead, the bridge of her nose, her
eyelids too, shuttered closed to hold in all that sweet warmth of sensation with which he filled her. Her cheeks,
her chin, the column of her neck. Kisses descending, steadily, hands unbuttoning her shirt, reaching round to
unclasp her bra.
Soft nibbling now on the breasts she felt too small yet he adored, hardening her teats, making each envious of
the other as he clasped the one between his lips, held it between guarded teeth and licked and flicked.
Hands at her waistband, unbuttoning the skirt she always wore for him and which buttoned from waist to hem,
unfastening the side ties of the briefs she wore for him, so that skirt and briefs simply folded open, like petals of a
flower. No hiatus, no clumsy waiting for him to draw clothes over her feet, but nakedness on a bed of skirt and
silk panties, waiting his still descending kisses.
He traces her breast bone with his lips and tongue, trails kisses along the gentle curve of belly, drawing ever
nearer. Her breathing changes as he draws closer, every breath held and savoured as long as she can hold it,
whilst the imposed stillness of her body seems to tighten every nerve, until he draws so close that her breathing
grows faster, as if mimicking the rhythm of the pulse within her clit.
Warm and wet, prickling and electric, even the tiny hairs of her would reach out to him, seek to embrace the lips
and tongue that sought to embrace her.
And there, suddenly, warmer, wetter, his questing tongue matching wetness to wetness in the soft moist heat of
that tiny nest, flicking and licking at that third tiny teat, peeking coyly from her folds.
He would never stop till she dragged him by the hair, she squealing almost in her want, and he’d be there smiling,
eyes and lips, his lovely slender cock sweetly sliding into her, filling her, as she clutched at him, with urgent
muscle and tissue, hot and thirsty for his quenching.
How odd to taste herself on the lips that descended to her, and how sweet, and how sweet, too, his breath, as
their mouths meshed and the very undulation of their lungs connected, worked in concert. That warm, probing
weight, pubis grinding softly on pubis, and the slow acceleration so controlled until she could wait no longer and
clutched at his ass in desperation. Then the thrusting, hot, hard, pounding, the glorious friction of cock in cunt,
and so often that mutual surging, his gasps, her squeals sucked into each other.
Afterwards, guilt. Not then, but now, with her handsome husband gently snoring at her side and innocent of her
secret pleasures. Thank god for the absence of telepathy, that the lonely infidelity could be accomplished
without his knowing, without his being angry, feeling cheated.
It was she who had felt cheated, now, too often. It was she regretted that what had been, so long ago, was gone.
But for all that he had given her there was one thing Max had refused to give, and, then, with the ideals and fixed
ideas of youth she had not known how to handle it. He had said:
“I don’t want to be anyone’s exclusively, my love. I love too much, too easily, desire too much.”
It had taken a while to sink in. Though not his way to sleep around promiscuously, he revelled in the presence of
a number of close female friends and seemed to want to keep it that way, forever. And he had arguments,
carefully considered, with which he disposed, to his own satisfaction, of many of the rules and mores, of the fixed
monogamous perceptions which were then society’s and her own.
He had said he did not want to be owned, or to own. He had said any love of his would be free to take a lover,
whenever she wished, just so long as she was happy and was safe. And it tore her apart. For, yes, she wanted
to be owned, exclusively, and to own, exclusively. Nothing else, it seemed to her, could be safe.
Only now she had met him again.
She’d been sitting in a coffee shop, that day, contemplating the exhausted froth in the empty cup the waitress
had not removed and waiting for her tea to arrive, cross-examining herself, her most recent infidelity weighing
heavy on her mind. It had happened. She had found a lover who was not Mike, a lover who was married as she
was, stifled as she was, awake as she was to a newly discovered hunger.
And it had been – was still – glorious. And it had been – was still – frightening. Should Mike find out…
“Maggie?”
“Max!”
He had been married, she discovered, and un-married, once, pressured too long and too hard to concede to all
that the world seemed to want, and was now single again, living in an apartment here in town. He was a graphic
artist, now, and quite successful, and he looked it. He seemed barely to have changed at all and, she
discovered, he very much hadn’t.
“So you still believe in all that?” she had asked him near the end.
“I always have, really. For a while I allowed myself to be persuaded that I was wrong, was married, and watched
what we had suffocate in our trying to be everything to each other. She kept telling me I was all that she wanted,
yet what I was she wanted me to change.”
Maggie did not argue now. Instead she had told him everything, and she had found it easy. His smile still
reflected in eyes and mouth, was still so much the same, and the magnetism he exuded for her, she discovered,
had not changed.
Pondering one infidelity, she found herself drawn, gently but irresistibly, into another. At his apartment it had
been the same, exactly the same, as it had been those years ago and so many nights in fantasy, and afterwards
she wept.
Mike considers the subject closed and has chores to do in the garden, so Maggie reads from the beginning
again, still trying to find herself, to find a self she can love:
"His head lifted to the sound of the key in the lock and he rose from his workstation, stepped to the opening door
to greet her.
“You’ve met Katherine,” she says, by way of introduction, and he turns to the woman on her arm, offers his left
hand so that she can shake it without disengaging. The smile in his eyes mirrors the smile on his lips as he bids
her welcome, happy to see the two of them together, happy at the new fulfilment of his lover.
Her smile is full, almost joyous, her eyes sparkling, because she has Katherine with her and they are safe from
prying eyes and questioning tongues, and because here, with him, it feels so deliciously naughty too. And whilst
she knows that Katherine has had reservations she knows that she has come to understand and that the two she
loves most in the world are fast becoming friends:
“We’ll be a little while, my love.”
Again his smile, a nod:
“Of course.” And he glances up at the clock: “Coffee at about three?”
“You’re sure?”
“Why not?”
“That would be great.”
He does not express curiosity, though he has congratulated both of them sweetly and politely on their taste and
obvious affinity, and there is nothing in his gaze or in any of his words of speculation about their love-making. If
the thought of his lover with her tongue at the older woman’s clit, or of Katherine’s on hers or her mouth round
her nipples means anything to him, he shows not a sign of it. It is simply what she wants, and, therefore, it is
right".
Maggie is sorry about Mike; sorry about the secrets she keeps, grateful that the pseudonym, the gentle
substitutions of coffee for tea and Max’s art for writing, help prevent Mike from knowing that the story is hers, and
in the quiet hiatus of her unwitting husband’s absence Maggie sends swift soft emails to her lovers.
Copyright 2004, R V Raiment (rvraiment@yahoo.com)
All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or in part without written permission from the
author.
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