MAGPIE (8 page)

“I can tell
old
is not your problem, Maggie—staying out of trouble is!” I smiled as I disconnected.

***

My mind drifted as I drove home, settling on my last date. It was with Bill, sometime in mid-May. I struggled to recall details, but I managed to remember that, like Cocky Jock, Bill had called the same day he wanted to take me out. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d been asked out well in advance of the date.

How would I ever get used to the world of online dating?

It was almost six o’clock when I got home; goose bumps on my legs and arms reminded me it was early summer. After I fed Cody, I flipped through the mail and sat on the deck with a brimming glass of mint water. I didn’t drink soda—hated it actually. I’d become fascinated with infused water and had begun experimenting with different flavors, my palate wanting nothing more except a caffeine fix in the morning and dizzying nectar at night. My mind wandered for a good stretch and, realizing the time, I jumped from my favorite cedar Adirondack chair and headed to the closet.

A dress was out. Cocky Jock didn’t deserve it, and I didn’t feel like wearing one. I scoured the row of slacks and found a simple pair of black capris. I’d dress them up with a bright sweater and flirty sandals. Having decided on an ensemble, I stripped off my clothes and hopped in the shower. No time for feeling myself up, I had to get moving.

My phone buzzed just as I slid the mascara wand in the tube,

Today, 6:12 PM

DANIEL: Good day?

MAGS: Yes, actually

DANIEL: Whadya do?

MAGS: Aside from cumming in public? LOL!

DANIEL: :)

MAGS: Went to the spa, mani-pedi and a wax

DANIEL: Brazi?

MAGS: No, reg one – why do guys think thats sexy anyway?

DANIEL: Makes eating pussy delish

MAGS: Guess u wont be eating me

DANIEL: Oh yes I will

MAGS: Can’t fool around tonight

DANIEL: :(

MAGS: Hot date

DANIEL: :( :(

MAGS: Old hs flame

DANIEL: :( :( :(

MAGS: Don’t worry, u r my 1 and only virtual lovr!

DANIEL: Gunna fuck the guy?

MAGS: Maybe, if I feel like it

DANIEL: Text me the details later, we can have a virt 3 wy

MAGS: Might just do that

DANIEL: Send me a pic of your tits bf you go

MAGS: No time

DANIEL: :(

MAGS: Cry baby

DANIEL: Will await all the nasty details, lovr

MAGS: Mmm, will gladly give if there r any

DANIEL: Ta-ta

If Tina knew I’d sent compromising photos to Daniel, she’d institutionalize me. I wouldn’t even be able to get a word out about the precautions I’d taken before she’d have 911 on the line.

Daniel had started it, sending pictures a few weeks into our sexting spree. I’d been at work and was getting ready to leave for the day, tying up a few things before I left when the phone buzzed with a text from Daniel. I opened it and stared at an image of an incredibly erect cock. Quickly scanning my surroundings, I was relieved to see that most of the office had cleared out. I glanced back at the photo and became intrigued by its shape, color and slight bend to the right. I’d never been concerned with penis size—ability and skill mattered more. However, the blatant shot of Daniel’s impressive cock made me rethink my opinion.

I later reciprocated with a shot of my breasts, dripping wet from having just stepped out of the shower; no face, no recognizable background, and nothing that would lead back to me. I made sure to disable GPS tracking on my phone before taking the picture and sending it. Daniel was thrilled, and we began enhancing our late night escapades with photos and a few videos, agreeing to delete images after every rendezvous. I never knew if he did, but I complied each time; less out of respect for our agreement and more for fear of Katie (or the twins, God forbid) getting a glimpse of my forbidden world.

With not much time left, I dabbed a little makeup; my skin had bronzed over the last few weeks and I didn’t need much. I’d cropped my hair for summer, so all I needed was a little product to tame my curls and…Voila! Primping was complete.

I found one of my favorite lightweight sweaters near the back of my sweater drawer, an open-weave, boatneck number in the most brilliant shade of pink—not quite magenta but almost. I wore a lace camisole underneath, finishing the outfit with a pair of fine leather flip-flops with sparkly rhinestones. I was pleased that the color of nail polish I’d selected earlier at the salon matched my sweater perfectly. A quick look at my reflection and a swipe of lip gloss completed my routine. From shower to car door, I never spent more than 45 minutes getting ready to go out; date night with Brett was no exception.

The Varsity Grille was an upscale dive near the University of Denver, the oldest private university in the Rocky Mountain region. DU attracts domestic and international students with wealth and privilege, the common thread uniting an otherwise diverse campus. Housed in a renovated 1920s bungalow much like mine, “The Grille” was noted for its vintage furnishings from the antique and second-hand stores that lined Broadway for twenty solid blocks. Unlike most other college hangouts, The Grille had an eclectic clientele; a mixture of students, professors, neighbors and professionals gravitated to this cozy and upbeat place.

I parked several blocks away knowing that on a Saturday night, no street parking would be available nearby. It was five after eight, almost fashionably late. Thankful for lingering daylight, I took a look in the rearview mirror and dabbed on a little more lip gloss, running my fingers through my curls one last time.

Brett was standing on the front porch. Several tables were occupied on that coveted piece of real estate, but a two top remained vacant. As I approached, I noticed he was standing in front of it, staking his claim with masculine pride.

Waving, Brett said, “Hey there. I found a table outside. Does that work for you?” It was feeling more like high school every minute.

“Sure,” I said with a cautious smile.

We embraced like first cousins at a wedding. I did manage to feel very muscular arms through his thin Led Zeppelin “United States of America 1977” t-shirt.

After a few awkward moments, Brett got up and asked, “What would you like to drink, Mags?”

It was definitely a beer night, so I replied, “Stella, please.”

Brett asked if I wanted a glass, which totally threw me; hadn’t expected that level of service from Cocky Jock. Politely, I accepted the offer of a glass, and he moved through the door with a confident stride.

People-watching was one of my favorite pastimes. Airports offer the best subjects, but bars come in a close second. With only a few tables outside to observe, I locked onto a young couple engrossed in a debate about Obamacare. Interestingly, they were playing “footsy” and were able to separate discussion from passion, or so it seemed. Sitting at another table were three professional women, older, about my age. Unlike the young couple, they weren’t talking about anything of political or social importance. Men—black men to be specific—were the topic for the animated bunch. Before I could get any juicy tidbits, Brett walked over with my beer and his: a pint of Guinness.

“Guinness, huh?” I said as if it were an illegal import.

“The best. Can’t handle piss water like we drank in high school.” He took a sip, which left a foamy mustache on his upper lip that he wiped with the back of his hand.

I asked with a challenging tone, “Do you think Stella is piss water?’”

“For me, yeah. But if you like it, that’s all that matters.”

Surprised and a bit bothered he wasn’t annoyed, I said, “Yes, as a matter of fact I do,” and took a long swig.

“Want to talk beer or catch up a little?” Brett didn’t falter when he asked the question; instead of a beer debate, he seemed genuinely interested in getting to know one another…again.

Already feeling a buzz, I acquiesced, relaxing into what seemed to be the beginning of a fun date.

We ordered a couple of sandwiches and more beers. Conversation came easily, and I found myself really enjoying Brett’s company. As the night wore on, I began to see Brett differently. Sure, his edges were frayed, but he was so comfortable in his own skin. He knew where he stood and what mattered to him. He didn’t stay in shape to impress others, particularly women. Or so I gleaned from his lack of interest in any of the young, minimally dressed women that walked by our table.

I shivered as the evening cooled. Brett reached around to grab his jacket that hung on the back of his chair. “Here you go. This ought to keep you warm.” He handed me an extremely heavy black leather jacket.

“You ride a motorcycle?” I asked in an unfamiliar octave.

“Yeah, have since ASU. Nothing like riding through the desert with no one in sight. I know it sounds cliché, but I love the freedom and the sense nothing else exists but you and the road.” A whole new side to Brett opened up with those few words.

I smiled and said, “It’s not cliché. I know exactly what you mean. After my husband died, I spent a year taking road trips; sometimes I’d go for a few days. A few times, for several weeks. Folks at work were so good to me. When my leave dried up, they gave me unpaid leave.”

Calling my thoughts back to the present, I continued, “A bike probably feels very different physically, but I think we’re talking the same thing—emotionally and spiritually.”

I shifted in my chair, feeling a little vulnerable having just expressed something very personal. It seemed Brett’s ease had somehow rubbed off on me.

With a sly grin turning at one corner of his mouth, Brett asked, “Want to go for a ride?”

“Probably not, unless you have an extra helmet.” I wasn’t about to go anywhere on a bike without a helmet. I was still “death shy;” probably will be until I die.

“You can use mine,” he said, and before I could protest, he got up and went inside to pay the tab.

I don’t know a lot about motorcycles, but I do know what I like. We walked halfway down the block and came upon one of the hottest looking bikes I’d ever seen. A cruiser type, I noticed it was a Triumph when I walked up to it.

“I thought Triumphs were cars.” I regretted my remark as soon as it escaped my mouth.

What a ditz
, I thought.

“You’re not the first. Here, put this on.” Brett handed me a Darth Vader-looking helmet with a tinted screen and full facial coverage. He noticed that I was struggling to put it on and came over to help.

“Here you go…What a fox!” This time, his juvenile comment made me laugh. I had to admit I was having a terrific time.

We rode around the neighborhood, slowly at first, so I could get used to it. Brett walked me through the rules of riding “bitch,” and once he got a sense that I had it, we took off west to Santa Fe Drive where he turned it up a few notches. The wind on my skin was thrilling, and I giggled inside the dark chamber of the helmet. We drove for about thirty minutes until he turned around and headed back to The Grille. I was sad to see our spontaneous trip come to an end, but I didn’t let my disappointment show as I hefted myself off the seat.

“Wow, Brett, thank you.” I was still reeling with the thrill of the ride.

“Want a ride home?” He said with the same sly grin he gave earlier.

Probably his signature smile
...

“Hmm, not sure,” I said, instantly bemoaning my answer.

“I don’t bite, Mags. It’s just a ride.”

True
, I mused.

As if reading my mind, he continued, “And I’ll come get you in the morning to bring you back to your car. How’s that for a gentlemanly gesture?”

Smiling, I put his helmet back on and gave him my address. We pulled into my driveway, maneuvering to an expert stop. Luckily, I’d remembered to leave the porch light on. Some deep, primal part of me took over, and stepping off Brett’s bike, I asked if he’d like to come in. He didn’t hesitate and walked along side me, stepping back only to let me through the door. Cody greeted us but jumped back on the sofa, somehow sensing the tension between the stranger and me.

Turning to ask Brett if he wanted anything to drink, he grabbed my arm and swung me around. He found my mouth, and kissed me hard. I caught my breath and kissed him back with furious heat. Brett began exploring me through my clothes, grabbing my ass and squeezing my breasts. He ran his hand between my legs, heat instantly racing through my body. Lingering on his muscular arms, I slowly moved my hands along Brett’s back, sensing tension that aroused me unexpectedly. I stepped back, tracing my hands along his hips to the zipper of his jeans, where I felt his hard cock straining against me. Breaking away, I led Brett to the bedroom. He ripped off his shirt and was unzipping his jeans when I took over. Sliding my hand down his snug boxers, I began to stroke him and coaxed him out of his pants.

Brett wasted no time and carefully pulled my sweater over my head. Capris came off next as he kissed and licked each leg as he went. Inhaling deeply, I reached for his body, though he kept his distance, teasing me with each move. Finally, he stood and backed me up to the bed, removing my camisole in one smooth motion. He found my right breast and took it in his mouth, pinching the other nipple while grinding against my thigh.

I couldn’t breathe. My head was spinning, and it wasn’t from the beer or motorcycle ride. My arms had gone limp, and I instinctively spread my legs. Licking his way down the center of my belly, Brett tilted my hips just as his tongue found my pussy. Muttering unintelligibly, I closed my eyes. I completely surrendered to the magic of Brett’s mouth and savored every lick, his tongue investigating each swollen, throbbing fold. My hips began to move involuntarily, my breathing intensifying with each pivot. Purring turned to screaming and Brett took me with his entire mouth, sucking and pulling away, giving me a clitoral blow job. I began to cum in slow motion. I felt every sensation from head to toe—tingling, burning, throbbing. Brett yielded to the force of my orgasm allowing me to cum long and hard, screaming incoherently. Squeezing my breasts, I pinched my nipples hard to make the orgasm last longer.