The sun shone brightly through the white lace curtains as I stretched across the cotton sheets. The night had been too warm for my nightgown, but I couldn't bring myself to sleep naked. Sleep had come slowly as I thought about Margarite's story and envisioned her writhing on the boat dock. Max had not stopped by during the evening, and his respect for my space brought both relief and remorse.
The smell of coffee invaded my nose. I sat up in bed and looked towards the open bedroom door. I couldn't believe the scent drifted all the way from Max's cottage. I quickly slipped into my terrycloth robe and headed for the kitchen.
Max sat at the table reading the front page of the paper and sipping a cup of hot coffee. He was wearing sweatpants and sneakers, and his T-shirt was damp from what appeared to have been an early-morning run. I stood in disbelief as he smiled innocently and lifted his cup in a mock cheer. I had thought that Max would never come into the house without an invitation.
"Good morning, Jamie. Sleep well?"
"Fine," I said crossing my arms and leaning against the door frame, certain that he sensed my discomfort.
"I hope you don't mind me making coffee," he said nodding to the pot. "Something I always did for Margarite."
"What else did you do for her?" My tone was tinged with a slightly bitter taste of sarcasm as I walked to the cupboard and grabbed a cup. He had not answered my question by the time I poured coffee and sat across the table from him. His dark brown eyes searched for the meaning of my question. Perhaps there was no meaning; I wasn't sure myself.
"Why do you ask?"
"Just wondering what other surprises are in store." I raised my cup of coffee in a salute and sipped as his eyes fixed on my lips.
"I'm sorry," he said closing the paper. "I'm presumptuous. Would you like me to go?"
I suddenly felt like a jerk. Max hadn't done anything but brew my morning coffee, and I was treating him as I had treated so many men.
"No," I said smiling. "It's OK."
He relaxed and dropped the paper on the table as he sipped, watching me. I slid the paper in front of me as a distraction and focused on the front page.
"You remind me so much of Margarite," he said pulling my eyes back to his. "I guess I was hoping we could share the morning like she and I did."
I felt vulnerable sitting across from him. Barely awake enough to raise my normal shields of protection. Why did he want the intimacy that lovers sometimes shared in the morning?
"What did you two talk about?"
"I don't know," he said looking down at his hands. "Nothing...and everything. Margarite always had something on her mind. Sometimes when she wrote late at night, she would read to me what she had written."
"Well, I'm afraid I didn't write anything last night. I never found the typewriter."
"Did you look in the attic?" Were his eyes searching mine?
"Yes," I said. "I looked briefly. But I didn't open any of the boxes." My last statement sounded defensive and was a lie, and I cursed myself for succumbing to fear. What did Max care if I read Margarite's therapy? What did he care if I laid in bed and whimpered as I touched myself? I hated myself for being weak.
"The typewriter looks like a small suitcase. Want me to show you?" The thought of going to the attic with Max made my hands tremble. I set my cup on the table and slid my hands into the pockets of my robe.
"No, that's OK. I'll find it." Who was I kidding? I couldn't sit at the breakfast table and talk like an old friend while alarms sounded inside my body. I stood and took my cup to the sink, trying to think of a graceful escape.
"Well, I guess I better go," said Max, bringing his cup over and setting it down next to mine. I smelled the musk of his body as he stood close. His scent had a strange effect on me, and I imagined licking the salt off his neck. What a silly thought, I told myself. Max didn't want any girl licking his neck. He walked towards the back door that led from the kitchen to the yard.
"Thanks for making coffee," I said softly. He turned and smiled from the doorway.
"Sure you don't mind?"
"No. It was nice."
He looked at me for a long moment and then quickly closed the door behind him. I found myself smiling as I went upstairs to change.
By noon, I was climbing the rickety attic stairs in search of Margarite's typewriter. I glanced briefly at the box containing her "therapy" and pressed myself to stay on task. Pushing the boxes aside, I walked to the back of the loft where two cobwebbed lamps stood by an old sewing machine. A medium-sized, gray case next to it raised my hopes.
When I picked up the case to carry it to the light, the weight made me groan. Another good sign, I thought. I sat on the love seat alongside the window and flipped open the latches. Inside was the Smith-Corona and a bonus new ribbon tucked along the side.
"Great!" I snapped the case closed and headed towards the stairs. As I reached the top step, I glanced at the box containing the therapy folder and hesitated. I knew I wanted to read more, but I felt naughty even knowing the stories existed.
"Maybe one more," I thought to myself. I left the typewriter on the top step and walked to the box containing the file. I lifted the lid and withdrew the folder, carrying it to the love seat. I opened the window and saw movement in Max's bedroom. I dropped down to the cushion and peered over the top of the couch like some spy as he removed his soiled shirt and tossed it across the room. His backside faced the window as he slid down sweatpants and underwear in one swoop, exposing his naked butt.
"Oh my," I whispered into the couch. I was torn between watching and turning away - the thing I knew I was supposed to do. I had always turned away in the past; privacy was something to be protected. But I couldn't turn away. Perhaps Margarite's story had somehow emboldened me. I stared, hardly believing how much I enjoyed being a peeping tom. When he disappeared from my view, I was both happy and sad. Max had removed the decision from me, and for that I was glad. What would I have done if he had turned around? I wasn't ready to answer that question. I waited several minutes before I returned to Margarite's folder and turned to the second entry.
Warm sunlight fills the kitchen, cascading over the butcher block, across the wooden floor. The vegetables are crisp, fresh, and the knife slices through them easily. You pop a slice of raw carrot into your mouth, savoring the texture. Some vegetables will go into your lunch; some will be used for dinner. Your small hands chop and slice automatically, from long practice. You like the work, the cooking, and you smile at the warm sun. Out the window, you see the trees stretching into the distance. Spring is a good time for trees. Green leaves pop out to brighten the day.
The hands slip along your waist, and you're surprised. Not frightened. These are gentle hands, strong hands that slide around you, embracing you. You know these hands, these arms. The fingers that tiptoe across your tummy and down your hip, slipping down the crease of hip and thigh, walking along the thigh, wonderful fingers. The fingers rub the inside of the thigh. Warm breath bathes your neck. Soft lips brush the back of the neck, relishing the skin. Strong hips meet your bottom, and you feel desire, hard and ready, along your tush. Lips kiss. Hands rub. Hips move back and forth slowly. As fingers work up the thigh, you feel the first moist rush of fervor.
The rubbing on your tush feels so sensuous. Hands dance across you and find your jeans, unclasping, unzipping, snaking inside to caress the soft silk of your panties already wet with unmet desire. Fingers edge the jeans and ease them over hips, and they drop to the floor. The hard, throbbing desire feels close now through the panties. A finger hooks the elastic around your right thigh and slips inside, teasing you, touching and yet not touching. Another finger grooves the panties into you, soaking up your wetness.
You feel the soft silk inside you, pleasing you, the finger encased in silk touching you. Lips kiss your neck. The hard part of him rubs back and forth across your bottom. Your hands stop. You close your eyes. The silk finger finds you.
"There," you whisper. "Don't stop."
The finger touches and rubs and fiery wetness gushes to soak the silk and finger. A hand slips beneath your shirt and finds your raised nipple. Fingers twist and tease. Lips slip along your ear. The finger massages wonderfully. Your body responds with new heat and moisture. Hands grab your panties, and they join your jeans on the floor, and that wonderful finger finds you again, touching and pleasing.
Lips brush your cheek. You feel the hardness of his fire slip between your legs, long and hard and jerking with excitement. You spread your legs as the tip meets the finger, and it is guided inside. You gasp as it enters, but it feels so good, so needed. Deeper it strokes. The finger finds your special spot. Your nipple drinks his touch. Lips nibble your neck. You thrust back on the wonderful hardness, feeling your body respond to its needs. The finger draws on you, circles and squares and letters and passion. The strokes are harder now and faster.
"Yes," you whisper, "yes."
You grip the counter as the passion builds. The strokes are powerful, deep. The finger sends shudders through your body. You close your eyes and listen to the passion build inside. Like spring sap, your wetness gushes over everything. Your body tightens. Release is moments away.
"Harder," you say.
And it is harder and faster, and the finger tap dances on your desire. You can barely breathe as you feel it build inside you. Your mouth open, your eyes closed, you feel it sink deep, and you know it is as ready as you are. The orgasm breaks like a spring storm, sudden and powerful. Your body clamps down as you feel it pulse with hot spurts. Your body milks the spurting thing, drinking in the love. You feel the giddy high of love, the loss of self as two bodies become one living thing. For a moment, you have a sense of perfect harmony. You are complete, the way you were meant to be.
Lips kiss your cheek. Hands roam your body one last time. The withdrawal is slow and sexual, and you don't want it to go, but it must. You shiver as the hot, wet tip slips between your legs. Your eyes open. Your breathing slows. You smile at the bright sunshine. Your hands shake a little as you prepare to chop. The salad will taste better now. Everything will taste better. The heat in the center of your being will last a long time and keep you safe.
"Oh God!" I moaned closing the file. "That had to be Max." I looked out the window and into his bedroom as I thought about the story. My panties were wet with the silky excitement of the story, and I closed my eyes as my hands crept beneath my cotton dress. I felt ashamed, and yet my body demanded release. I visualized lovemaking in the kitchen as my fingers slipped inside my panties and soothed my aching need. Faster and faster I stroked myself until I too whispered "harder" as I imagined a hard need sinking deep inside me..
Wetness gushed over my hand as I shook with orgasm. Shame overwhelmed me, and I quickly withdrew my hand. My weakness mocked me. How could I hope to write a novel when I couldn't deny myself such base pleasure? Despite the craving and the release, I wasn't satisfied. It wasn't like Margarite's story. No man satisfied me, no lover with tender kisses and stimulating hands. No man had ever satisfied me. What kind of freak was I?
Dressed in jeans and T-shirt, Max walked across the yard toward the Jeep. From my hidden view in the attic, I watched him drive away.
"Get to work Jamie," I said. "If you want to be a writer, save your energy for writing, not schoolgirl fantasies."
I closed the folder and replaced it in the box, hating the shakiness in my legs. I didn't need men, not any man, and I didn't need the feelings Margarite's revelations stirred inside me. I vowed to leave her stories unread. I lifted the typewriter and headed down the stairs.
©Copyright 1996 - 1998 Angela Preston. These stories may not be reprinted in any form without written permission.