Maggie // 1.2

Maggie came back into her room and paused. Her head worked on her neck, puzzled, looking around the dim space.

“Max?” she said.

She kicked her slippers off next to the door, and padded to the window, slipped the curtain aside and watched the sunny green field below. Looking for who? Max? The wrestler? He fought the urge to jump out right now and end this. He had enough to go on. He had a solid case — armed with a mountain of circumstantial evidence. His fists shook again. He bit his tongue and settled himself in the junk at the bottom of her roommate’s closet.

His Maggie had always been faithful. Well, at least she had never given him a reason to think otherwise. She wasn’t boy-crazy. Didn’t party. Wasn’t interested in sororities or frats or being cool. She was a good person. In her junior year she left him to do a semester in Rome, and while he missed her painfully, desperately, she Skyped every day. Never made him feel like she was hanging out with people he couldn’t trust. She had been so good.

Maggie threw herself on her bed and she was thinking. Turned rapidly at her waist; turned to her sketchbook and grabbed it and clutched it to her chest. Her eyebrows tented in the middle. Did Max look? Yes, he did, you bad girl. He saw what you’ve been up to.

She bit her thumbnail, staring down at the carpet, one leg folded, the other draped over the edge of the bed, swinging against it. Flipped her sketchbook open and looked at her own drawings. Her bottom lip sucked into her mouth and she bit it. Threw her sketchbook aside again. She looked at her phone and seemed to brighten. Saw his text. Her thumbs tapped away.

He tilted his phone’s screen to him. It was set to silent, but he saw it light up, and read her words.

Maggie: can’t wait. pizza!!!! 7 P.M.?

His thumb pressed his screen ever so lightly, not making a sound. He sent her a big giant fucking enormous thumbs-up. His jaw set firmly and his brow came down low, temples aching from the pressure. He’d see. She’d show him. He was about to find out a lot about the woman he’d got down on one knee at the gazebo in the village and asked to marry.

Maggie returned to the window, leaning on her bedside table and watching out at the lawn and trees out front. There were crisscrossing paths of concrete, people reading under trees, Cole’s brother playing Hacky Sack, couples eating and stroking each other’s hair. He knew she was waiting for someone. Knew she was watching for her wrestler with his beautiful body and his big hanging cock. It was a thrilling sunny day outside, but his Maggie was up to very dark things. She kicked a foot lightly, her bare foot bent, her toes now twisting a little dance on the bare floor while she waited. Her hand came behind her and under the long T-shirt and she ran a finger along the trim of her panties. A sexy little move, one that would make him crazy for her ten minutes ago but one now that made him want to vomit. Absently touching herself, getting a little thrill across the sensitive curve of her ticklish rump. She liked being touched there. Did her lover touch her there? Did he know that spot? Know she liked a soft caress over the cheeks of her ass. Know it would make her giggle and squirm and conjure a delightful girlish laugh from her. He could picture the two of them laying in bed together. Satiated after an incredible fuck. Looking into each other’s eyes and letting their hands explore each other’s bodies. Learn each other’s dirty biological secrets.

He was coming. Maggie must have seen him walking the path. She flinched, went into action. Threw her tin of pastels and charcoal onto the bed. The flats of her hands smoothed the bedding where Max had laid. She hopped to the dresser and looked at her reflection. Thin fingers finding her blue and platinum locks and pulling them straight, letting them curl and bounce. Splayed her hair over her shoulders, looked at herself very closely in the mirror, dabbed at her eyelashes. She stood straight, hopped a little. Checked the bounce of her beautiful little breasts under her lover’s yellow shirt. Pulled it taut against herself and watched her breasts press the fabric, lifted it quick and checked her bare tummy and her panties. She turned and looked at her ass, bent to see what was revealed and how much. Tidied her hair one more time, gave herself a good stare into her own eyes in the mirror and smiled.

Went then to her door, and she cracked it open. Looped around the handle on the inside of the door was a black paisley handkerchief, tied like a headband. She took it and exchanged it, looping it around the outside handle. The handkerchief was Jessie’s and Maggie’s signal to one another that they were with a boy. A wink-wink Do Not Disturb sign. His heart pounded. It was true. She returned to her bed and sat at her pillows with the windows behind her. Opened her sketchbook and fiddled with a charcoal pencil, sat straight, flexed her neck, put her shoulders back. Conscious of her pose, wanting to look good when her lover walked through the door.

***

There was a knock. It made him bristle. A masculine hand rapping, a knuckle against her door, seen in the gap she’d left. Without waiting for a response, the hand pressed the door to open wide. He was here. The handsome boy from the drawings. His fiancé’s lover. Stepping into Maggie’s space, so familiar with the place she lived.

“Hey, look at you, right on time,” she said with an easy charm that belied the nervous show she’d demonstrated in front of her dresser mirror in the anxious moment before he arrived.

This interloper stood now at the side of her bed. Her in her intimate things. He was as tall as Max, but solidly built. Broad shoulders that were round and full, thick arms that stretched his heather grey T-shirt. It was tight against him, loose around his slim waist. He wore tight jeans and black and red Jordans.

“Late, really,” he laughed, his voice deep, masculine without belligerence. “On time is fifteen minutes late.”

“Sounds like a sports thing,” she said, her eyes narrowed coolly, putting on some show for this boy who seemed to make her heart flutter.

“Coach’s words,” he agreed with a chuckle, and he slung his satchel off a shoulder and onto her bed by her feet. “How you been?”

“I’m okay,” she said, hugging her knees to herself and smiling at him. She was showing him the bare back of her creamy thighs, the slash of her panties where they curled over her mound. Max’s heart raced already. “How was your week?”

“Practice, practice, practice,” he said. He set himself on the bed at her feet, sideways, his feet on the floor, looking across his shoulder at her. He hunched, his heavy hands coming to rest on his denim thighs.

Maggie sat forward, her bare legs falling open to rest cross legged, showing this boy the crotch of her panties, exposing herself wide. Max could see it from the closet, the bottom of the shirt sitting across her hips.

She said, “Do you want to get right at it? Keep it professional tod — ”

“You look so good in my shirt.”

Her fingers pinched it, held it out while she looked down and read it upside down. “I washed it for you,” she whispered.

“You got it pretty messy.”

She seemed to blush, her body pulling back from him, embarrassed by what he said. How did she get his shirt messy?

Her hand came up and ran a lock of her long hair behind one of her cute ears. “Let’s get right at it. We should, right?”

“Sure,” he agreed. “Where you want me today?”

“I have some ideas.”

“I’ll do whatever you want me to, Maggie.”

She blushed again, her cheeks getting a rosy colour, her lips sucking into her mouth. “Umm,” she said, a hum in her throat, lips still clenched. “At the foot of the bed, I think, and . . . I’ll show you.”

“Okay,” he said, shrugging, standing up. He pulled his shoes off and dropped them to the floor. Then peeled his shirt up and over his head. He arched his back as he did it, flexing and pushing his stomach muscles out against the skin so Maggie could see. She was watching. Watching him undress very carefully. The charcoal pencil tapped nervously against the pad of paper. The model turned to face her, big strong hands grabbing his belt buckle and working it undone. His jeans were button-fly, and he undid them one by one while Maggie watched from a few feet away. He opened them, pulled the flaps wide, a heavy appendage tumbling out and swinging in front of her. She showed no reaction, though she took it all in. He shoved his pants down his legs, kicked them off, struggling in front of her, pulling his feet out of the tight bottoms. His cock swung and slapped between his thighs and his fiancée did not look away. The guy stooped and pulled his socks off, smiling at her as he did, showing her he was almost ready. Balled the socks and threw them over his shoes.

He stood naked in her room. The sun came in through her curtains, shamelessly left open for anyone in the facing dorm across the field to see. His muscle shone in the light. He was exemplary, there was no denying it. Built like a gymnast, a wrestler, a gifted athlete that used his body at its maximum every day. Blessed between his legs with an enormous swinging truncheon. Max reeled as he took it in. This beautiful, perfect naked man, his future wife up to something with him, watching his naked form a few feet from her. His palms chilled with a sudden rising sweat.

The boy stepped back to the corner of the bed, standing himself much like Max had seen in the drawing in Maggie’s sketchbook.

“Yeah, stay there,” she said, turning herself on the bed, legs down, pointed toes touching the floor. The top bedside drawer made its hollow scrape as it was drawn open, her unsteady hand reaching in and drawing out a pair of folded tights. Ones she wore in the spring sometimes. Opaque, hot, bright, bubble gum pink. She stood then, her body so close to his. The tights unrolled and swayed between them as she held them by the toes.

She said, “Can you put your hands behind your back?”

It made the guy smile. A nice, white smile on his masculine but boyish face. His broad back was turned to her. He put his hands behind him, looking over his shoulder at her. Maggie looked at his bare ass, winding the tights through her grip, hesitating, admiring his body from behind.

“Like this?” he asked, waiting for instruction.

“Yeah,” she said, a breathy gasp.

The tights flipped over his wrists, she let the crotch settle against him, wrapped the legs around a few times and tied a loose knot at the end of a loop.

“Turn around,” she said, her fingertips touching his bare midsection. Max’s hair stood up, a bolt of emotion striking through him. Maggie got her model turned, facing her, his cock swinging right by her thighs; she was looking his body up and down. “Step back,” she said, guiding him, “sit on the corner of the bed, but I want your hands tied behind you to the bedpost. Is that okay?”

“I’ll do whatever you need, Maggie,” he said, looking over his shoulder at the corner of the bed, lining himself up. Maggie helped him, taking the loose loop of pink tights and hooping it over the top of the bed post. He was now tied to the bed with his hands behind his back.

“Is that comfortable?” she asked him.

“I’m fine,” he told her.

“Let me know if it hurts or anything.”

“I will,” he said. “How you want me to pose?”

“Like you’re wounded. Like a captive. A prisoner of war.”

He leaned forward, putting his weight towards her, the tights holding him from falling. “How’s this?” he asked her.

“Perfect, perfect,” she said. “Now,” she looked him over, standing right next to him, her bare foot against his bare foot. “Put this leg up,” she said, touching the inside of his thigh, so close to his penis. “On the bed, lean towards it.”

“Okay.”

Her hands spread across his chest, pushing him, angling him, her eyes studying the way the light cast shadows across his beautiful body. “Okay,” she said, positioning him. “Don’t move. Now,” she said, stepping back, putting a hand out and touching his chin with her thumb and forefinger. She tilted it, pointed his face the way she wanted. “Okay, but look towards me. Show sadness. God,” she said, “that’s it. You have a perfect face.”

Her words stabbed Max all the way in the closet. Hearing her acknowledge the guy’s looks, say it to him. She was sending him a signal. Wasn’t she?

She stepped back, looked him over again, eyes studying. She bent to him, “Excuse me,” she said, and she held his penis and she straightened it, let it fall against his thigh the way she liked, her other hand coming in to help and pulling his balls forward. “That’s it,” she nodded. “Perfect.” Then added, “Sorry,” stepping back to the head of the bed.

“You know I don’t mind,” he said, a smile creeping.

“Don’t smile,” she said. “Professional today.”

Maggie did it. She touched his cock. Held that big thing, felt what another man had between his legs. Felt a big impressive one. Wanted to. Wanted to touch it, Max knew. He knew her, knew her behavior. She wanted to feel his cock. Acting like this was art.

It didn’t seem, however, that they were lovers. She seemed earnest to draw him. Not to fuck him. What he saw ached his core, made his brow twist with sadness, but the truth was it didn’t look like they were fucking. Maggie’s biggest crime was lying — saying she was waiting for others to show up, she didn’t know the model, she’d go to a studio. Her biggest crime was her desire to be alone with this guy naked.

Max rested his chin on his knee and watched her. He loved Maggie. She sat now in her skimpy outfit, wanting to be seen by this boy, wanting him to see she was sexy . . . But they weren’t lovers. He didn’t like what he saw, but she was being good. She’d touched his penis, but it wasn’t the end of the world. It was almost arousing in a weird way.

***

Maggie seated herself at the head of the bed, back against her pillows. Brought her sketchbook up and flipped to a clean page. Wielded her charcoal pencil again, propped herself comfortably with her knees drawn up and her paper angled on her thighs. Soft scratching noises filled the quiet room as she roughed out her model’s form on the toothy paper. Glancing up, eyeballing, then down to the paper, watching her hand make shapes that would transmit the essence of the naked boy she drew posing at the foot of her bed.

The pencil scratched quickly, her motions coming from her elbow, dainty hand holding the charcoal in a loose grip and letting it swoop across her pad.

They were both quiet, neither saying a word. It was so quiet there was a distinct risk that they would hear him in the closet. A gurgling, an accidental sniff, a bump against some of the junk that Jessie had piled in there. He held his breath tight in his lungs, and the sound of his pulse beating a rhythm on his eardrums became maddening. This was a mistake. Couldn’t blame himself — he was riled. But hiding and spying on the girl he loved was a terrible thing. But, fuck, she made him suspicious. The last thing he wanted was to be the kind of guy he was right now.

As Maggie drew, he got a little sleepy in the heat of the closet. His eyes feeling heavy. The boy was angled away from him, his penis not visible now. Muscles bulged out against his skin from the effort. He was gorgeous. Maggie drew with intent. Her legs were bare, and the boy was probably looking at the back of her legs. Maybe her pretty toes. Maybe he could see her panties between her legs. They weren’t going to fuck. Maggie wasn’t going to cheat.

What she had done was, in a way, arousing Max. In Maggie’s chest beat the heart of a red-blooded woman. A woman who was aroused by male sexuality. That was normal. Circumstances had put her in a situation where she was able to ogle a boy with an incredible body and a big penis. She took it. Took it because she was normal. She hadn’t broken rules. She’d lied to him because she was embarrassed. Embarrassed, and she didn’t want Max to stop her. Sure she touched his penis, but he’d touched a stripper’s breast at a bachelor party a month and a half ago. Didn’t once think of running off with said stripper and leaving Maggie and filling the stripper full of babies. In fact, he quite distinctly remembered coming to this room that night — at three in the morning, amid shushing and Jessie tsking them and throwing herself around in her bed — and he’d climbed in with Maggie. Got her giggling and they had quite the session. That little innocent touch set a spark off in him.

“It’s doing it again,” Maggie said.

“Sorry,” the guy said.

Maggie smiled at her sketchbook, the sunlight over her shoulder and reflecting off her paper and shining the gloss on her lips and sparkling her eyes. “Seriously,” she said, “make it stop.” Her smile was wider.

“I can’t. Don’t mention it. Makes it worse.”

The charcoal resumed its scratching. “Jay, stop. I . . . I don’t want to do that again. I want this to be, uh, professional.”

“I’ll try,” he said.

What the fuck were they talking about? What was happening and what didn’t she want to do again?

There, on the boy named Jay’s thigh, Max could see his penis again. It was curled on his muscular leg, swelling, twisting against the dry skin and nosediving. Jay was getting an erection.