Читать книгу Flesh For Fantasy - Joan Elizabeth Lloyd - Страница 9

Later that evening, Barbara lay on her bed, the romance novel she had been trying to read now discarded beside her. It had been foolish, she realized, to even try to think about anything besides the weird visit she had had with the ghost of a sort of motherly, utterly charming prostitute. Images had whirled in her brain as she had tossed her uneaten dinner in the trash and methodically washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen.

She considered what Maggie had said. Her life wasn’t dull, it was just predictable. She went to work five mornings a week, arriving in White Plains, barring car trouble, at almost exactly eight o’clock each morning. Gordon, Watson, Kelly and Wise was a small but elite firm, run by Mark Watson and John Kelly, two aging lawyers, and Steve Gordon, the thirty-five-year-old sexy-looking lawyer for whom Barbara worked. Barbara brought her half-sandwich and salad with her each day and ate her lunch at her desk. Steve Gordon junior, son of one of the founding partners, wasn’t overly dependent on her so Barbara usually left at four-thirty and was home before five.

Most weekends she did odd jobs around her two-story raised ranch. In the summer she mowed the lawn, in the winter she shoveled the driveway. Her kitchen and bathroom floors were clean enough to eat off of, and at the first sign of mildew she attacked her tub and shower with cleansers and brushes. She was an active member of her local church and could be counted to cook and bake for every benefit, chaperone the youth events and join parishioners in holiday visits to local nursing homes.

My life’s not dull. It isn’t. But when was the last time she had been out on a date? Carl Tyndell’s face flashed again through her brain. He was the last, she realized, and that was…She counted on her fingers. Let’s see. Mom got really sick and moved in two years ago and it was a few months before that. Maybe more than a few months. Phew. Had it really been more than three years since she had had a date? Well, after that last debacle, it was just as well. Anyway, she was happy. Wasn’t she?

She thought about Steve. He was almost six feet tall with piercing blue eyes and just enough gray at his temples to be distinguished and sexy. He had a strong jaw, and large hands with slender fingers and well-sculptured nails. Frequently Barbara would find herself watching his hands as he signed the correspondence she typed for him.

Was Maggie right? Barbara sighed and popped an M&M into her mouth from the open bag on her bedside table.

She slept little that night and, the next day since Steve was in court, she typed, arranged and organized several important briefs, two wills and a few mortgage documents. Without too much thought, she opened Steve’s mail, dealt with the items she could handle herself and arranged the others in folders on his desk. She answered the phone, made and confirmed several appointments for her boss and gave him his messages and took copious notes about his responses each time he called in. She nibbled on her American cheese sandwich and salad at lunch and left the office at four thirty-five.

As she drove home, she realized that, although she had thought about her life and the things Maggie had said most of the day, she had made her decision the previous evening. If this whole thing wasn’t an elaborate hoax or some kind of boredom-induced hallucination, she would go along with Maggie, at least for the moment.

When Maggie had walked out of Barbara’s kitchen the previous evening she suddenly found herself back inside the revolving door. She pushed her way to the other side and stepped out, only to find herself walking back through Barbara’s kitchen door.

“I didn’t know whether you’d really be here,” Barbara said as Maggie entered the kitchen.

“This is really disorienting,” Maggie said, rubbing her forehead. The kitchen was different, with two plates on the table, each with a hamburger on a toasted bun, mixed vegetables, and rice. “When am I?”

“That’s an interesting takeoff on the typical question. It’s almost six-fifteen. I wasn’t sure you’d be back.”

“Did we meet last evening or just a few minutes ago?”

“We met yesterday.” Barbara sat at one end of the table and pointed to the second place setting. “I cooked some dinner for you, but I remember you told me you didn’t get hungry. I can put it away and eat it for lunch tomorrow if you don’t want it.”

“This is all new to me, too,” Maggie admitted. “I don’t know exactly what I do and what I don’t.” She sat down and sniffed, enjoying the slightly charcoal smell of the grilled burger in front of her.

“Is this the first time you’ve helped someone?”

Maggie nodded ruefully. “I’m not like Michael Landon in Highway to Heaven. This isn’t my job, you know. It’s just a test to see where I go.”

“I love Highway to Heaven. Michael Landon is so adorable.”

Maggie raised an eyebrow. “Well, it’s good to know you notice things like that.” She picked up the burger and took a bite. “Delicious.”

“Thanks. I did all the cooking for my mother and me until she died. Good wine and good food were her only pleasures toward the end, and I did what I could to make special things for her.”

“Well,” Maggie said, her mouth full, “this is really wonderful.”

Barbara found herself delighted that Maggie liked her cooking. “What does an angel do all day? I mean, what did you do today?”

“I’m certainly not an angel as anyone who knew me in my old profession can tell you. That’s the problem that puts me here with you. And for me, there was no today. I walked out of your kitchen and just walked back in.” She blinked, then took another bite of her burger. “I guess I’ll get used to it. Tell me what’s been happening in the world since I left. Did the O.J. Simpson trial ever end?”

For the next hour Barbara caught Maggie up on what had occurred in the last eight months. Strangely, Barbara realized as she poured coffee for each of them, she had completely accepted the fact that Maggie was dead. She also realized that she hadn’t enjoyed an evening this much in a long time.

“I think it’s time we got down to business” Maggie said as she sipped her coffee. “I’m here to see that you get out, date, have some fun.”

Barbara stretched her legs beneath the table and sighed. “It won’t work. I am what I am.”

“Do I hear self-pity? A bit of ‘poor little me?’”

Barbara sat upright. “Not at all. It’s just that you can’t make something out of nothing.”

“All right, let’s get serious here. Do you have a full-length mirror somewhere?”

“I guess.” Together the two women walked upstairs and into the guest bedroom. It was a simply decorated room with a flowered quilt, matching drapes, and a simple dresser. The room looked and smelled unused. Maggie walked behind Barbara and together they stood in front of the long mirror that hung on the closet door.

“Now, look at you,” Maggie said, looking at Barbara’s reflection over her shoulder. Barbara was wearing a pair of nondescript gray sweat pants and an oversize matching sweat shirt. “You look like you’ve just come from a ragpickers’ convention.”

“But this is just for comfort,” Barbara protested.

“Comfort is one thing but dressing in sacks is another.” Maggie grabbed a handful of the back of the shirt and pulled. The fabric stretched more tightly across Barbara’s chest. “There’s a body under this,” she said. “Nice tits.” She pulled the pants in at the seat. “And you’ve got nice hips, a small waist. Yes, there’s actually a shape under all this material.”

Barbara looked, but remained unconvinced.

“Look at your face,” Maggie said, grabbing a fistful of hair and pulling it back, away from Barbara’s face. “Nice eyes. Actually, great eyes. Good cheekbones, good shape. A definite nose, but not too much, and nicely shaped lips. Your skin’s not great, but nothing that a decent foundation wouldn’t cure.” She released Barbara’s hair and the two women stood, gazing into the mirror. “There’s really a lot of potential. We just need makeup, a good hair stylist, and a new wardrobe.”

“I don’t need a new wardrobe,” Barbara said, almost stomping toward her own room. She crossed to her closet, opened the door and flipped on the light. “Just look. There are lots of really nice clothes in here.”

“Nice for a dowdy moderately shapeless old maid, but not for you. You need high shades, sapphire and emerald, deep claret and purple. Oh, you’d look sensational in eggplant.”

“I have all the clothes I need.”

“But not the ones you want. You seem to want to slide through life virtually unnoticed. Nonsense. Make a statement. Be a real person.”

“I am a real person.”

Maggie made a rude noise. “In attitude, you rate a D and in self-esteem you get an F. In looks, I’ll give you a ‘needs improvement.’ And with the improvement will come a change in attitude as well. Are you game?”

Barbara dropped onto her bed. “I don’t know, Maggie. Part of me wants to be adventurous, stick out in a crowd, have men notice me. But the rest is terrified. It’s such a risk.”

Maggie sat beside Barbara and put her arm loosely around the younger woman’s shoulders. “Why is it a risk?” she asked softly.

“It just is.”

“Think about the worst thing that could happen if you walked into a room in a bright red dress with black stockings and black high heels, with golden highlights in your hair and a ‘here I am, come and get me’ expression on your face. What’s the worst thing?”

To her surprise Barbara burst into tears. Helpless, Maggie handed her a handful of tissues and, with her arms around Barbara’s shoulders, let her cry it all out. It took fifteen minutes for Barbara to get calm enough for Maggie to attempt to talk to her again. “You have to tell me what’s eating you.”

Barbara wiped her face and shook her head.

“I can ask Lucy and she’ll find out with that computer system of hers.” Maggie explained Lucy’s ability to replay events in her life at will. She had no idea whether she could even get to Lucy or whether Lucy could bring up bits of Barbara’s past, but she thought it was a decent bluff.

“Oh, no. That would be too humiliating.”

“Well, then, let me get us each a glass of wine and then you tell me what it is that frightens you so much. Where’s the rest of the bottle we were drinking last evening?”

“In the closet next to the refrigerator, and the glasses are in the hutch in the living room.”

“Lord. Unless I was entertaining I left dishes in the sink for days and in my drainer even longer. Okay. You think about how you’re going to tell me the ugly details while I fetch for us.” Maggie left the room.

Barbara listened to Maggie’s footsteps on the stairs and slumped onto her back. Maybe I can just run away. Maybe I can tell her to go to hell. Maybe I can slit my wrists. She sighed. Maybe it will feel good to tell someone about Carl and Walt. But maybe Maggie would just give up on her if she did. Didn’t that serve her purpose anyway, make Maggie go away? Too soon, Maggie returned and thrust a glass of wine into her hand.

“Drink this like it’s medicine,” Maggie said, brandishing the bottle and her glass in the other. “There’s enough here for another half-glass for each of us.”

Staying flat on her back on the bed, Barbara awkwardly emptied the glass, then held it out for Maggie to refill. Maggie emptied the bottle into Barbara’s glass, then stretched out beside her on the bed. Softly she said, “Tell me about him.”

“How did you know it was a him?”

Maggie chuckled. “When a woman has an ego that has been smashed as flat as yours it’s always a man—or a woman. And from the way you gazed at that boss of yours yesterday, I assumed the asshole who flattened your self-esteem was a man.”

“Oh, yes,” Barbara said. “Carl Tyndell was definitely a man, and I guess an asshole, too.”

“That’s the attitude.” Maggie stared at the ceiling, giving Barbara time to decide where to begin.

“I met Carl at a party. It was about four years ago and I had just had my twenty-seventh birthday. Notice I didn’t say I celebrated, because, for some unknown reason, that birthday hit me very hard.”

As she set the scene for Maggie, Barbara could almost see the room, hear the incessant babble of suburban conversation, smell the cold cuts on the dining-room table. A couple she knew slightly from her church had given the party to introduce some new neighbors. She had put her coat on the bed in the master bedroom and as she walked back down the stairs she saw a sensational-looking man talking in low whispers to Walt McCrory, a neighborhood bachelor whom she had dated a few times a few months earlier. The two men laughed loudly, then the stranger worked his way through the crowd and engaged her in conversation.

“I should have suspected something was up the way Walt leered at me,” Barbara said.

“You and this Walt didn’t part on good terms, I gather.”

“We went out for a few weeks. We had dinner a few times, then one warm evening he invited me back to his place to check out his new above-the-ground pool. One thing led to another, but obviously not fast enough for Walt. After I told him I didn’t want to be groped, he called me a cold bitch, incapable of giving a man a decent wet dream much less a hard-on.”

“So he presumably talked this Carl person into picking you up.”

“I guess that’s true, but I was so naive that I didn’t make the connection until much later.”

“We never do,” Maggie said sadly.

“Anyway, Carl and I made dinner plans for a few days later. We had a wonderful meal and a few too many drinks. He was attentive and seemed interested in everything I had to say. His eyes were so deep brown as to be almost black. His hair was also dark brown and he had nice hands. I’m a sucker for men with great hands.”

“Me too.” Maggie smiled, thinking about how many men’s hands had touched her over the years.

“After dinner, Carl suggested a drive along the Hudson. We used my car, parked in a darkened area he knew about and kissed like teenagers. One thing led to another and suddenly my blouse was off and my bra was open. His mouth was on me and he was whispering, ‘Babs, sweetie, oh, Babs.’ Suddenly Walt pulled the car door open and snapped a flash picture of me, naked from the waist up.

“ You win, Carl baby,’ Walt said. ‘I can’t deny it when I have the proof and a great shot of Babs’ tits right here.’ I watched the picture spit out of the front of the camera and slowly appear before my eyes.”

“Win what?” Maggie asked, annoyed by the pain inflicted by something that to those two probably amounted to nothing more than a prank.

“They had made a bet that Carl couldn’t get my upper body exposed on the first date. Right there in the car Walt counted out a hundred dollars and handed it to Carl. Walt said that he didn’t think anyone could get the ice bitch out of her clothes in under six months. They laughed, pounded each other on the back, then the two of them walked to Walt’s car, and took off.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh.”

“Well that wasn’t the end of the world, was it?”

Barbara just stared at the ceiling. “I never told anyone about that night and, I guess, Walt never did either. I spent the next few weeks waiting for the picture or the story to circulate, but for some unknown reason, nothing happened.”

“Did you ever see them again?”

“I never saw Carl again. He must have been ‘imported talent.’” She said the phrase with a sneer. “I see Walt once in a while, but he’s not a church type and I stick almost completely to church gatherings.”

“Safe stuff. No risk of anyone getting sexual.” Maggie took Barbara’s hand. “Wouldn’t you like to get him back sometime?”

Barbara smiled. “I’d love to, but there’s no hope of that.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. It just gives us another reason to make you over and get you some experience.” She paused. “Are you a virgin?”

Barbara sat upright. “What a question.”

“Well…”

“No. I’ve had relationships.” She slumped back down onto her back. “But not recently.”

“And Steve? Wouldn’t you like him to notice you?”

“Of course.”

“So you’ll let me help you? For your mom and Steve and maybe even Walt and Carl.”

Barbara sighed. She wanted to let Maggie help. It was all so bizarre but it was a chance to get some of the things she wanted. It might be her only chance. “I guess.”

“Good,” Maggie said. “First, call in sick tomorrow and we’ll get your hair done, get someone to help you with your makeup and see what we can do about some clothes for you. I need to know something that’s a bit embarrassing. Is money a problem? I’m a bit short of funds, you realize.”

Barbara laughed out loud for the first time since Maggie had appeared the previous evening. “No. My job pays well and I don’t spend much. I’m not Saks Fifth Avenue-well off, but we could certainly go to the mall and dent my credit card.”

“Great.”

“You know, it sounds like fun.”

“It does, doesn’t it.”

“Will you be able to be here? I mean how do you just appear and disappear the way you do?”

Maggie thought, then answered, “I don’t know how.” She told Barbara about the revolving door. “I seem to be able to set some kind of clock, so I just come out of the door here at the right time.”

“Do you have powers? Like moving stuff with your mind or walking through walls?”

“I don’t think so, but Lucy and Angela seem to be in charge of that. They said I’d have what I needed when I needed it, so I’ll just have to trust them.” She stood up. “I’ve got to be going now.” She cocked her head to one side. “I don’t know how I know that, but I do.” She walked toward the bedroom door, then turned. “Tomorrow. Ninish.”

Barbara raised her hand and waved as Maggie walked through the bedroom door and vanished.

Barbara’s dreams were troubled for the first part of the night. She was in the car with Walt and Carl, but the car was really the gaping jaws of a giant mythical beast and, as the two men jumped out, the jaws began to close on her naked, immobile body. Then she was walking down the aisle in church dressed in a bridal gown, with her mother holding her arm, ready to give her away to the man who stood beside the priest, his back turned to her. When she reached his side, he turned, but he had no face. She looked down and saw that he was a tuxedoed store mannequin with two poles holding him up where his legs should have been.

The following morning, Barbara called her office and told the woman who answered the phone that she had urgent personal business and wouldn’t be in the office until the following day. She dressed in a man-tailored shirt and jeans, white socks and sneakers, grabbed a denim jacket and bounced down to the kitchen. Bounced, she thought, was a good word for the way she felt. Light. Elastic. Good!

She made a pot of strong coffee and toasted a bagel. She sat at the table munching and thinking about the day’s activities. “Good morning,” Maggie said from the doorway.

“Hi. Maggie,” Barbara responded. “Coffee?”

“I guess. This time warp thing I’m in is still very confusing. It seems like only a moment ago I left you last evening.”

“Nice outfit,” Barbara said.

Maggie looked down, puzzled. “I didn’t change clothes,” she whispered. Last evening she had had on an outfit similar to the clothes Barbara was wearing this morning. But now Maggie was wearing a pair of wide-legged black rayon pants and a soft gray silk blouse. “Very disconcerting,” she mumbled.

Barbara poured Maggie a mug of coffee and set it down beside a pitcher of milk and the sugar bowl. “Maggie,” she asked as her friend dropped into a chair. “How did you become a…I mean…?”

“Hooker?”

“Yeah. Well…”

“You mean how did a nice girl like me end up entertaining men for money.”

“You can’t blame me for being curious.”

Maggie grinned. “Of course not. And let’s get this settled right now. I’ve said it before. I am proud of what I do, er…did. I had my own rules and I stuck by them at all times. My customers and I had fun. We were careful and honest.”

“It’s just difficult for me to believe in the hooker with the heart of gold. It’s so clichéd.”

“Heart of gold. I like that. I like that a lot. Anyway, you asked how I got started in my business. It began with my first divorce.”

“You were married?” Barbara said, her eyes wide.

“Twice, but this is my story to tell. Anyway, Chuck and I married right out of high school in 1955 and stayed together for six years. The split was amicable. We just had nothing in common anymore. No kids, we both worked, our sex life was dull, dull, dull. He married again by the way, to a nice, mousey woman who seemed to make him happy. But that’s another story.

“As a divorcee, I slept around. That was a very loose time, before AIDS, very into me first. I found that I loved sex. I enjoyed pleasing the men I was with and I had fun learning how to do it. I was still just beginning to learn about fantasy when I met Bob. He had a wonderfully creative mind and taught me about all sorts of new things in the bedroom. When he suggested we get married, I thought I’d found my ultimate sex partner and in order to keep us together, I said yes.”

“He sounds like a wonderful lover.”

“He was and he taught me to be a giving, creative partner.”

“But…”

“But I couldn’t stand him outside of the bedroom. He and I were exact opposites. He was a neat freak, I’m a bit of a slob. He liked his meals at specific times, all organized, I like to scrounge for myself. You get it. So, after two fantastic years in the bedroom and two awful years everywhere else, we split, too. That was 1974, and it seems like forever ago. I was intensely glad when he left, but I was horny as hell. All the time. The one good thing about marriage is that you can usually have all the sex you want.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“It was for me. I still worked, of course. I was manager of the computer input department at a regional bank. I had very good people skills, as my boss called them, but I was bored. Bored, lonely and horny at home and bored, stressed, and frustrated at work. Not much of a life.”

Barbara patted the back of Maggie’s hand, well able to sympathize with the older woman.

“One evening I just couldn’t bear to go home to that empty apartment so I stopped at a bar near work. I’d been sitting at the bar for about an hour, feeling sorry for myself, when a cute-looking guy sat down on the stool next to mine.” Maggie closed her eyes and a smile changed her expression from despair to enjoyment as she remembered that evening. “I remember. I called myself Margaret at that time.”

“Hi,” the man said. “My name’s Frank.”

Maggie looked up, ready to brush the man off with a clever remark. But as she took in his charming smile, she changed her mind. “Hi. I’m Margaret.”

“Glad to meet you, Margaret. I come in here whenever I’m in town but I’ve never seen you before.”

“I’ve never been in here before,” Maggie said.

Frank placed his elbow on the bar and leaned his chin on his hand, studying Maggie’s face. “You know,” he said after a moment, “you don’t look like a Margaret.”

Maggie sipped her white wine, unwilling to make any overt gestures of friendliness toward this stranger who was in the process of picking her up in a bar. “And how would a Margaret look?”

“Oh, let’s see. Margaret is very serious. Tight bun. Thick glasses. Sensible shoes.”

Maggie thought about that and realized that, in the months since she and Bob had gone their separate ways, she had become just what Frank pictured. No, she thought, I won’t be that person. I’m only thirty-three. She took a large swallow of her wine and sat up a bit straighter. “Okay. I guess I can’t be that kind of Margaret. What would you call me?”

“Well, Margie is young, pert, and too cute to be believed, so that’s not you. And Peggy is an Irish lass with red hair and freckles.”

“Okay. Neither of those sound like me. So who am I?”

“You look like a Maggie. Nice-looking. Interesting and interested. Open to new experiences.”

“What a line you’ve got,” Maggie said, realizing that, whether it was a line or not, this man had made her feel younger than she had in years. She lowered her chin and looked up at Frank through her lashes. “And I must say I like it.”

Frank grinned. “Me too. And it usually works.”

Maggie laughed. “You admit that it’s a line? How original.”

“The line’s original, too,” he said. “And you’re the first woman who’s picked up on it so quickly.” He tried and almost succeeded in looking like a small boy with his hand in the cookie jar. It helped that he had medium brown hair naturally streaked with blond, wide blue eyes, and a fantastic mouth.

They talked for an hour, then went to a nearby French restaurant and shared a sumptuous meal which included a bottle of fine Chardonnay and a glass of sweet, golden dessert wine. She learned that Frank was divorced, in town from Dallas for a week for his firm’s quarterly department meetings and that he was charming and sexy and determined to get her into his bed. As he dropped his credit card onto the check, he took Maggie’s hand. As he held it across the table, his index finger scratched little patterns in her palm. “We could be good together,” he purred.

She had to admit to herself that she was turned on. But this was a man who had picked her up, not someone she worked with or who had been introduced to her by friends. He was only in town for a short time. She couldn’t even delude herself into thinking this was the beginning of a long-term relationship. But she wanted to go to bed with him nonetheless. “How can you be so sure?” she said.

“I can be very sure. I can see it in your eyes, your body, the way you smile, the way you can’t quite sit still. You want this as much as I do. How do you like your sex?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. How do you like your sex? Long and slow, with lots of kissing and stroking? Hard and fast, like the pair of animals we are? Standing up with your back pressed against the wall and your legs locked around my waist? In the shower under torrents of hot water? Tell me and I’ll make it that way for you.”

Maggie shrugged. She couldn’t tell him how she liked her sex because she loved it all ways. “You tell me,” she hedged. “How do you like it?”

“Oh, Maggie, I think I’d like it every way with you.” He lifted her hand and nipped at her fingertips.

“No,” she said, more seriously. “Tell me. How would you like to make love with me? Create the fantasy and let’s see how we mesh.”

“You’re serious. You want me to tell you.” When Maggie merely nodded, Frank said, “I see you slowly removing your clothes while I watch. I watch you reveal your body to me, one small piece at a time.”

Silently Maggie reached up and unbuttoned the top two buttons on her blouse and parted the sides so the valley between her breasts was visible.

“Shit, baby. I’m hard as stone already.”

Maggie raised an eyebrow but remained silent.

“Okay. I see you in your bra and panties.” He looked around the tablecloth at Maggie’s shoes. “Yes. Black high heels. I like that. You’re not wearing pantyhose, are you?”

“I won’t be,” she said, contemplating a quick trip to the ladies’ room. She watched the flush rise on Frank’s face. She was turning him on. What a trip.

“You’re walking toward me, then unzipping my pants.”

Maggie was very turned on and more than a little drunk. Without changing her expression, she slipped one foot out of her shoe and stretched her foot across the space between them and rested her stocking-covered toes against the swelling in his crotch.

His startled look, followed by a shift of position to place her foot more firmly against his zipper, told Maggie exactly what she was doing to him. “Shit, baby, let’s get out of here,” he moaned.

“The waiter hasn’t brought your credit card back,” Maggie said, feigning an innocent expression. She wiggled her toes in his lap. “As I remember, I was unzipping your pants. Tell me more. I want to know exactly how you see this evening we’re going to have.”

She watched Frank take a deep breath. “I can’t think when you do that.”

Again she silently raised an eyebrow. She was in charge now, quite deliberately turning Frank on, a man she had met only three hours before.

His voice uneven, he continued. “You were unzipping my pants and taking out my cock. It’s so hard it sticks up like a flagpole. You’re wrapping your hand around it and licking your lips.”

Maggie slowly ran the tip of her tongue across her upper lip. “Like this?”

At that moment, the waiter returned with Frank’s charge slip, which he signed with an obviously shaking hand. As he wrote, Maggie moved her toes in his lap. As the waiter took the restaurant copy, Maggie asked, “Could I have just a bit more coffee?”

“Certainly, madame.”

“But, Maggie, I thought we were going to my room.” He was almost whining.

“We will. But I need just a bit more coffee and you haven’t finished your story. I was holding your cock, as I recall. Squeezing it as it sticks up through the opening in your pants. Let’s see, I’m wearing a black lace bra, bikini panties, and my high black shoes. Right?” Bob had taught her about the power of a well-set erotic scene and he had marveled at her ability to use words to turn him on. Now she was using all her skill to turn Frank on. And it was working better than she could have imagined.

Frank was again lost in his fantasy. “Right,” he whispered.

“And I’ll bet you want me to take your cock into my mouth and suck you.”

“Oh, yes,” he groaned as the waiter refilled Maggie’s coffee cup. Without removing her hand from his, or her foot from his lap, she poured cream into her cup and stirred.

When he didn’t continue, she said, “You want me to touch the tip of your cock with my lips, kiss it, lick it, make it wet.” She deliberately slowed the cadence of her speech. “Then I can slowly suck it into my mouth. Very slowly. Pulling it deeper and deeper into that hot, wet cave.”

Frank’s eyes closed, obviously lost in the fantasy.

“Now I pull back, but I keep sucking so your cock pulls out so slowly. Down and up, my mouth is driving you crazy.” She remembered a trick Bob had taught her. “But I wrap my fingers around the base of your cock so you can’t come as I keep on sucking. I don’t want you to come yet, baby.”

“But I want to come.”

“Not until we’re both ready. So now I pull my panties off and rub myself. I’m very wet, you know. I let you lick my finger so you can taste me. Do I taste good?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Good. Now I pull off your pants, but I leave your shirt on. It’s very sexy for me to see you all dressed in your business shirt and tie while I slowly put a cold, lubricated condom over your cock. It feels tight, like it’s hugging you. Now I push you down onto the bed, straddle your waist and use the tip of your slippery cock to play with myself.” She looked at his closed eyes. “Can you see me?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice harsh and almost inaudible.

“Let me take off my bra so you can watch my breasts as I play with your cock. I’m rubbing my clit now. It’s hard and you can even feel it against your cock. And I’m so wet. Your hips are moving, trying to push your cock inside. Shall I let you?”

“Please.”

“Yes, I will. I lower myself onto you, pulling you deep inside. You fill me up so well, baby. I raise up and drop, over and over, fucking you so good. Do you want to come now? I’m almost ready.” With his eyes closed, Frank groaned. Maggie rubbed her foot along the length of his cock under the tablecloth.

“I’m almost ready. Almost. Wait for me, baby.” Maggie was so turned on by her description of Frank’s fantasy that if she reached under the table and touched herself, she would come. But she didn’t.

“Yes, baby,” she said. “I’m coming now. You can feel my pussy squeezing your cock. Come with me.”

“Yes,” Frank groaned. Then his eyes flew open. “No.” He pushed Maggie’s foot from his lap. “Not here.”

“No. Not here,” Maggie said. “But I need a trip to the ladies’ room first.” To remove her pantyhose. When she returned, Frank was waiting for her with her coat in his hands. “My hotel is just around the corner.”

Maggie slipped her arms into the sleeves. “Good,” she said. “I find I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“Are you sure you’re not a professional at this? No offense.”

“No offense taken. And no, I’m not a pro.”

“Well, you should be. I’ve been with my share of professional entertainers and no one holds a candle to you.”

As they walked out of the restaurant, Maggie asked, “You’ve been with call girls?”

“Sure. Sometimes the company provides entertainment for the out-of-town reps. And not one of them could come close to the way you turn me on. That little story back there…” He wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “Holy shit.”

“I enjoy turning men on. I dated a lot before I met Bob, and then he taught me about fantasy and lots of variations on straight sex. I love it all.”

“You should get paid for it.”

“How much do call girls make?”

“The classy ones like you make hundreds a night.”

“Hundreds of dollars?” Maggie gasped.

They turned the corner and approached Frank’s hotel. “Sure. I know a few people and I could introduce you.”

“Hmmm.”

Maggie looked at Barbara. “The evening went exactly like the fantasy we had created.” She took a drink from her coffee cup. “And he introduced me to someone who introduced me to someone else and, as they say, the rest is history.”

“Wow.”

“Yes. Wow. And I entertained men for twenty years.”

“Did you ever have any bad experiences? You read about hookers getting beaten up and stuff.”

“I had one or two men who didn’t get the message when I told them to knock it off, but I know how to defend myself and I seldom take chances. All the men I entertain, er…entertained—it’s so hard for me to think of myself in the past tense. The men I entertained were all recommended, lonely business types who just wanted someone to have some fun with. You know, do the things they wouldn’t do with their wives.”

“Like?”

“Mostly oral sex and anal sex. Some were into power fantasies, both giving and receiving and a few were into pain.”

“You mean like whips?”

“I slapped a few men on the ass, but I never did whips because I can’t get pleasure out of that. Heavy pain is such a turn-off for me that I made it clear I wouldn’t play those games. But most other things were as exciting for me as they were for the men I was with.”

“That’s amazing.”

Maggie looked at her watch. “It’s getting late. Get your pocketbook and your credit cards and we’re off to shop.”

Barbara stood up. “I can’t wait.”