Maggie's Five ...the first in a LOVE story

by Sandra Fitzgerald

  Red carries me to a large bed and gently lowers us, relaxing his hold and kissing my mouth like a lover.

  “You’re so fucking fresh, Maggie.” His lips moves against my tingling skin as he presses his pelvis between my legs.

  The blonde woman leans over me to kiss Red’s neck, murmuring, “She’s lovely, thank you for bringing her for me.” Her English accent is soft, her words flowing elegantly from her full red lips.

  “I want her for myself, Abigail.”

  “I can tell. I’ll be nice, don’t worry.”

  His voice drops to a whisper as he undoes the rest of the buttons on my shirt, opening it to expose my lace bra. “You’re so fucking innocent, Maggie,” he says in wonder, kissing my mouth with perfect lips again before climbing off the bed and walking to a table.

  The bed dips as the blonde, Abigail, slides down next to me, patting my exposed stomach like I’m her pet. She leans over and licks a kiss over my navel.

  “Abigail,” Red warns, capturing my attention I watch him bend, place a short black straw to his nose and inhale. First one white line, then he switches the straw to his other nostril and draws in a second, rubbing and pinching his nose. He blinks rapidly as he comes back to me.

  I feel my eyes rolling to the back of my head. My lids get heavy begging to close. “What… What did you…” my voice trails off, unable to complete my sentence. Red takes off his shirt and climbs over me.

  “Shh, Maggie, you’re going to be okay, I promise sweetheart. Just lie back and let us take care of you,” he purrs, brushing the hair from my face and kissing my mouth like he loves me.

  I know his mouth is on my mouth. I can feel him, see him if I open my eyes, but I can also feel another mouth licking at my thighs, willing them to open. I’m so far gone that I can’t seem to find the presence of mind to be concerned about it. When a hand slides under my skirt and soft fingers press onto me, I’m gone. My mind is awash, my nerve endings alight, and I’m completely overflowing in surreal erotic sensation.

  Somewhere in the back ground I vaguely hear a door open, then close. A chair is dragged close, and I hear a deep satisfied hum of approval.

  “Just let go, sweetheart.”

  I WAKE LYING face down on the couch, drooling into a soft cushion underneath my head. I’m covered with the blanket that’s normally folded over the back of the three seater I’m sprawled out on. The sun’s setting through the lounge windows, warming my skin, but no longer strong enough to burn.

  My limbs feel so heavy that they could leave permanent indentation in the cushions. My mind is dull, hung over but not. The same, but different.

  I don’t know how I got here. I barely remember a thing from last night after entering that club. I feel violated, dirty. And I don’t even know why.

  I lift the blanket to take in my appearance. I’m dressed and, for some reason this surprises me. Holding my breath, I gently press my hand between my legs, anticipating pain, or in the least, discomfort, but feel nothing. I must still be numb from last night’s cocktail of dissolution. Carefully sitting up, I take an inventory as I move. Nothing screams out for attention, nothing broken or battered, so what in God’s name happened last night?

  I stand on heavy legs to trudge to the downstairs bathroom, stopping short when I see the cut flower sitting on the coffee table in front of me. It’s bruised and damaged pink petals remind me of my neighbour’s garden. Behind the flower I see the light flashing on my phone. I robotically pick it up and slide my thumb to unlock the blank screen. There’s a text.

  Red: You were so fucking innocent last night Maggie. I wish I could show you just how perfect you were. Thank you so much sweetheart.

  Chapter 8

  THE CAR HORN sounds repeatedly from my drive, making me jump in fright after being perched on the couch in the living room, waiting. Red texted me earlier, telling me to be ready to go by ten.

  I was ready by seven thirty.

  As to where we are going, I have no idea - so I’ve dressed basically, with black knee-length fitted skirt that’s little roomier than it used to be and a white short-sleeve shirt. Knowing Red however, we’re most likely heading to a club of some description - same as all the other nights he’s come for me.

  Leaping to my feet, I shift the curtain to spy through the front window and see Red’s black sports car idling with the driver, side window down, his arm hanging out; the orange glow of his cigarette swinging lazily from between two fingers.

  “Come on sweetheart, let’s go,” he calls impatiently from his seat. The orange glow lifts inside the car and is inhaled to life, burning brilliant for but a moment, petering out just as quickly. Much along the same lines of what he does to me, he offers me bright bursts of life that smoulder out far too soon.

  “You don’t knock anymore?” I ask, attempting to mask my question with a half-hearted giggle while I situate myself in the passenger seat next to him and close the door carefully.

  “You can’t find your own fucking way from the front door to the fucking car?” he barks, passing me his smoke. I look down at his hand without moving, my brows crossing. Slowly I lift my eyes to see his glare.

  He holds his hand up higher, “Take the fucking thing when I tell you to,” he growls, wedging the rolled paper between my lips. Then he jars the gearstick into reverse, and presses on the accelerator so abruptly it causes me to lurch forwards until we’re in the middle of the road. He then forces it into first and speeds us away, slamming me back against the seat.

  I inhale the joint as I’m told and stay silent, offering it back to him when I’m done.

  “Finish it.” And I do. After all, this is Playing with the Devil Red. The moody, dangerous, unpredictable and sexy as all get out Red that I find so incredibly physically appealing… it’s goes beyond all rational logic. I’m caught in one of those moments when you know bad is just bad, but can be so freaking pulse-racing good.

  By the time Red’s parking the car I’m feeling more relaxed, numb. I think numb looks good on me these days. It certainly sits better than the alternative.

  “Got any cash on you, sweetheart?” Red asks, gnawing on his top lip and staring out the windscreen.

  “Yes, I think so.” I lift my bag to my lap and take out my purse. Before I can open it to see how much is in there, Red snatches it out of my hand and hurriedly jerks the zip, tugging at it until it’s free of its catches, and dives his fingers in to take what’s there.

  “This all of it,” he states rather than asks, rubbing the back of his hand aggressively over his nose before holding up the wad of cash. He folds it in half and shoves it in his pocket. There’s actually more than I thought - about two or three hundred at least.

  “I need it. Let’s go.” He’s shouldering the car door open before I have a chance to reply, tossing my still-open and now empty purse at me, littering the receipts and cards over my lap.

  The club’s in full swing when I finally catch up to Red. I hook a finger in his back pocket, feeling the now familiar tingle of anticipation as I enter the vast space behind him. It covers all the usual culprits: smoke-filled room, loud blaring music, dim lighting with blinding strobes and half-dressed leather-clad people with more coloured flesh than organic.

  Red marches straight up to the bar and immediately starts talking animatedly with one of the barmen. He’s edgy, clutching and unclutching his hands and all but climbing over the marred timber top. His temper escalates until the barman says something in his ear, then reaches under the bar and shakes Red’s hand. Red’s entire body visibly sags in relief. He digs his hands into his pockets, pulling out the wad of cash he took from me with the other and passes it over with a nod.

  He immediately snatches a short black straw out of the metal canister on the counter, working it between his teeth. He takes my wrist firmly, his other hand still deep in his pocket, and drags me hastily to the men’s room. No explanations, no apologies, nothing but his insatiable need.

  He forces his way through the middle
of a small group of men leaving the bathroom, and zeros in on the sink. Dropping my arm, he wipes vigorously at the sticky wet surface with the edge of his tee-shirt, then with his bare arm. Trembling, he tears open the package the barman gave him with his teeth and hurriedly empties the contents. I’m captivated, watching Red working the white powder on the counter with a credit card, chopping it into two even lines. He wipes harshly at his nose, brings the black straw to his nostril and bends, first inhaling one line, then shifting the straw to his other side, to draw in the second. He wipes loose powder from the top of his lip with his middle finger and rubs it over his gums and teeth. Every molecule that possesses his body exudes relief, and finally Red straightens, becoming himself again.

  He wipes the same finger over the surface he just breathed in and wanders towards me. His voice is soft and gentle. “Come here sweetheart. Let me help make it better for you.”

  I step slowly over to him, amazed by the change in him. He’s calm and no longer intimidating, smirking so his dimple’s showing. He licks over my mouth to open it and slips his finger in after, rubbing over my gums and teeth. I trace my tongue over the path his finger took to dissolve the dry powder sticking to my numbing flesh.

  I watch fascinated as he reaches for me, wrapping one hand around my waist, the other delving into the front pocket of his jeans. He presses a tender moist kiss to my mouth, licks my lips apart again and places a small pill inside while I pull away slightly.

  He repeats the words he used last time I questioned him. “It’s nothing real sweetheart.”

  And it’s not. What Red gives me isn’t real like the stuff he uses.

  It’s fine. I’m fine. Better even.

  I swallow and lean in to hold him as euphoria warms me to my core, heightening my senses, at the same time dulling my reality. I feel, while my heart-rate increases. I sigh, as Red’s soft hands begin to massage my back; his mouth working wet biting kisses to my mouth, attacking me with his tongue. Heat instantly shoots and swells between my legs, moistening my underwear. My breasts tingle and pucker under the sublime pressure of Red’s incredible fingers.

  I hear a deep male voice boom from afar - “Holy fuck, a free show” - but don’t find the rationale to care… not even when Red hoists my skirt up around my hips and is lifting me on the edge of the counter, my knees clutching the sides of his grinding hips. I don’t find the logic to care when people start to cheer us on, nor when Red lowers his pants and fumbles, sliding on a condom, nor when he shifts my underwear to one side and enters me.

  I don’t care because I’m so completely lost to myself, and it’s heaven.

  NIGHT BLEEDS INTO day, day bleeds into night. My life’s become filled with turbulent highs bursting with lust and escape, and bone-crushing lows so dark and overwhelming that my existence could end and bring a smile to my face.

  Luke calls constantly, and I constantly reject his number.

  It’s safer that way.

  I began to find my fit when he was here and now that he’s not, I don’t seem to fit anywhere.

  I don’t like feeling that dependant on one person, I don’t like that I need that one person to make me more. I don’t like that Luke’s the one that helps fill the emptiness that I can’t seem to fill myself.

  I don’t understand why he’s the only one that I can exhale with. I don’t like that I miss him so much it brings me to my knees when we talk, when I listen to his hollow promises about coming back, coming home, when he’s still there week after week.

  I don’t like that Luke’s became the right kind of right for me when I wasn’t looking. I hate that I can’t find that on my own.

  I hate that I like what I find when I’m with Red.

  Jon’s been by a few times between photography shoots. They’ve been awkward visits with coffee and little conversation. Amazing, isn’t it, how after all the years we’ve known each other, we no longer have anything left in common. Nothing alive, anyway.

  He’s off on assignment again now, according to his latest voicemail anyway - no doubt shooting pictures of all the wonderful things out there in the world for his many adoring magazine admirers.

  My dad’s having trouble with his arthritis and is mostly house-bound. He has a nurse who visits him every day, and yes, I feel like a selfish bitch for not spending time with him.

  It’s the hurt in his eyes that stops me, the hurt that’s for me not for himself, not for his loss, but mine. I don’t need to be reminded more than I already am about how much I no longer have.

  Jon’s parents are still overseas finding their piece. I’m trying to be happy for them.

  Honestly, I’m so jealous they’ve found a way to heal, I could spit.

  My phone chimes, alerting me to an incoming text, and I breathe a loud sigh of relief, grateful for the distraction. It’s Red telling me to be ready for when he comes for me. He only comes at night, which is fine because I tend to sleep most of the day. We’ve had more nights out together than I can clearly recollect. He always gives me something in the car on the way to the club, or party, or bar, that makes me feel amazingly oblivious. I like that he does that… more than I should.

  I run to the shower and do my thing, stepping over the disarray I’m ignoring in my bedroom. I settle on wearing a black denim mini skirt, my killer patent heels because they’re the highest I have, and a black tube top – or, as my mum used to call it, a boob tube. The nights are getting colder but I don’t want to have to carry a jacket, so I don’t bother with one.

  I’ve noticed my makeup has gotten heavier to conceal the slight imperfections developing on my left cheek and jaw, and to cover up the dark circles under my eyes. The kohl pencil I use is blacker, thicker. It should make my green irises brighter, but it’s a dull stare I see looking back at me in the mirror. My lip gloss is richer and my hair wilder, which isn’t hard given all the red curls.

  A car horn blasts from the street. I race down the stairs, twisting my ankle slightly, but not badly. I hop to the entrance table and collect my purse and keys. I want to compose myself so I won’t look too eager to see him, but it’s difficult. I really like the fog he brings when I’m with him. I think I could be a little hooked on that fog.

  I walk out the house, trying to disguise my slight limp, and open the car door, bending at the waist to look in before sitting. I think part of me is trying to be sexy, but years of being married make it hard to remember how to flirt… that is, if I even knew how to in the first place.

  “Hi,” I purr - at least I hope I’m purring like a Playboy Bunny, but I highly doubt it.

  Red smirks in reply, his gaze dropping to my cleavage. “Nice top sweetheart. Hurry up and get your arse in.”

  We speed off while I’m still buckling up the seatbelt. Red has the cash out of my purse, a flask in my hand and a pill on my tongue by the time we take the first bend. It’s fine because it’s nothing real, right?

  Tonight the club we’re parked near has a weathered sign painted over the narrow doorway, the word Haze written crudely above it. The building’s dated but there’s a small crowd congregating around the entrance, so it’s clearly a popular place given it’s the middle of the week.

  Red has my hand in his, and is pulling me to the side before we even make it to the crowd. He rests a joint in my mouth and flicks his lighter, holding it steady while I drag on the end like he’s taught me.

  I’m such a good student; I know how to take a shot, drink from a hip flask, swallow tiny, tiny pills and smoke a joint, all like I’ve been shown. What more could you ask for?

  Red steals the joint from my lips and takes a pull, holding it in. He returns his lighter and removes something else and lifts it for me to see.

  “Just another half sweetheart. Another full hit will have you on your arse, you’re so fucking skinny.”

  I’m skinny? I’ve never been thin before.

  He bites the small pill in half, swallowing the portion between his teeth and placing the other through my parted lips and u
nder my tongue. He reaches inside his jacket and passes me the flask, instructing me to “finish it off” - so I do, dropping the empty container in my bag so he doesn’t have to carry it.

  His eyes catch my every move while he inhales deeply on the joint again. Holding it captive, Red then wraps a hand around the back of my neck and meshes his mouth over mine, kissing the smoke into me. The mix of pills, booze and Red is heaven.

  His aggressive mouth is firm and probing and I love it. He picks me up by the back of my legs and turns me so my back’s against the harsh bricks and then deepens our kiss, grinding his body against mine as the haze thickens and my nerve endings tingle. He takes my weight and moves us into a closed doorway, hitching up my skirt and sliding his hand to the edge of my underwear, lightly tracing the lace covered elastic. My fingers tangle in his choppy black hair and my heart-rate soars with his probing fingers.

  My phone starts vibrating in my back pocket.

  “Ignore it,” Red growls, biting on my earlobe.

  My head’s awash with chemical lust, there was never a chance of me answering it. I take his face in my hands and bring his mouth back to mine, kissing him with everything I can manage through my fog. My perfect, perfect fog.

  “I want in you,” he gravels out, tearing my panties to one side and sliding two fingers through my wet folds. “Fuck you’re soaked sweetheart, hold on.”

  He lets me go - then has to quickly grab hold of my butt when he feels me slipping. I can’t seem to find the strength to carry my own body weight. Opting to prop me onto his hip instead, I attack his neck.

  Red takes his wallet out of his back pocket. “Undo my pants sweetheart,” he commands, flicking the leather open. My hands automatically fumble for his waistband and start popping the buttons while he takes out a condom and roughly shoves at the back pocket of his pants as they loosen from my hold.