Chapter 11

When Maeby woke up the first thing she noticed was that her hand was intertwined with George Michael's. She had slept wonderfully last night. It was late in the morning she guessed as the sun was blazing full throttle through the small window in their bedroom. She lay there for just a few moments, admiring his face, every inch of it. She let her hand remain in his, savoring the sensation. She kept her breathing to a minimum, knowing it would all end when he woke up. He didn't however, and she must have laid there for about half an hour until she finally willed herself to get out of bed. Being a small bed it wasn't easy, and she heard him stir as she got to her feet.

"Maeby," his sleepy voice murmured, his hand reaching out to touch her as she passed.

"Hey," she whispered lightly. "I'm just going to get ready for the day." As she went into the bathroom she realised that she didn't really have anything to do. No work and no school. She knew the saying that the 'the devil makes work for idle hands,' and she supposed that with nothing to do this was why she was engaging in this nonsense of an affair, if that, with her cousin. The devil makes romance for idle hands she thought, somewhat proudly to herself. It was a consoling thought, that her emotions were the result not of some Shakespearean love doomed to end in misery, but rather of the boredom she faced this summer. Nothing to do, other then flirt and smile at George Michael. She brushed her teeth and then undressed, pulling of her pyjamas so as to enter the shower. She turned on the hot water to maximum and allowed it to douse her contradictory feelings. She was only in it for five minutes before the hot water went cold. She stepped out quickly and dried herself with a wonderfully soft silk white towel that she knew for a fact had been stolen from a hotel room by her mother. She opened the bathroom door and walked out only to jump in alarm to see George Michael still there. She stood still, frozen like a cat in the headlights. She was completely naked except for her towel which covered the front of her body. She was still slightly wet from the shower, beads of water glistening of her body. She was completely naked, covered only by the towel. Usually when she went into the bathroom that was George Michael's que to leave, but this time he had stayed. He was still wearing his pyjamas.

"I'm sorry, I'll give you some privacy," George Michael quickly said, making his way to the door with some haste.

"No." She said it in a whisper. Her body suddenly felt on fire, every part of her wanted him to touch her. The room was filled with the natural sunlight coming in through the window. It had been opened by George Michael while she was in the shower, and the sound of the birds lightly made its way into the ears of both teenagers. George Michael took a step closer to Maeby so that they were staring into each other's eyes. She could feel his breath on her body, just like last night. She quite clearly could see through his thinly veiled pyjamas how the situation was making him. She tried to fix her eyes on his face, resisting the temptation to look down and ogle his manliness. The room was warm, but it was nice and she felt like it would be so wonderful to have him touch her, feel her. George Michael smiled, and much to her surprise he leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. It was a short and simple kiss but it made her feel alive with excitement, her loins aching for him. She dropped the towel. In doing so she knew she was crossing the Rubicon, no turning back now. George Michael's mouth hung open as his eyes ravished every part of her naked body. She stood their still, allowing him to devour every part of her with his eyes, every part of her body. Her breasts she noticed were of particular attention to him, he stared at those the longest much to her pleasure. He said no words as he moved in, slowly to kiss her once more. This time it was longer, his tongue slipping into her mouth. What could she do but moan loudly, praying that no one else would walk past their door and hear.

"Yes George Michael," she said in ecstasy when her mouth was free of his. That didn't last long, and soon they were kissing again, no longer sweet and sensual but vicious and furious, as if the two of them were battling for control of the other. He went for her neck, laying kisses down it. "Yes, that's it." She admitted he was good but she struck back with her hands smothering his chest. Impeded by his pyjamas she made her way to his buttons, unbuttoning them with lighting speed; a product of her impatience. She practically tore of his shirt, her hands roaming over the front of his body. How could they have lived in the same bedroom for so long without engaging in this spectacle of pleasure? How could she have slept just above him without coming down to his bed and, under the safety of the darkness and the knowledge that everyone in the Bluth household was asleep, ravish him and gain this ultimate pleasure in return? One of his hands was on her left breast. She wanted him to take her now. He was still kissing her, but like an addict she needed more. With both hands she gripped his shoulders and pushed him down on the bed. He gave a small yelp of surprise, but before he could even get up she was on top of him. He raised his right hand to her chest, feeling every curve with obvious delight. His right hand trailed down her stomach straight to her sex. She moaned louder, one on the door, dreading the moment that someone would walk in on them. Any worries she had evaporated as he touched her. Touched her there. Never before had she felt anything like it. Her right hand did to George Michael as he was doing to her, feeling every part of each other. They were loud, and getting louder, surely someone would enter.

"Faster," gasped Maeby, as he used on of her hands to push his further inside of her, stimulating her closer and closer to the climax of their being together. "Faster," she repeated, an animalistic sense of realism taking over her mind. There was pleasure, and that was it and all social conventions, worries about how she was his cousin, worries about the possibility of their relationship paled in comparison to the way he was making her feel.

"Faster," she said, "faster."

"No, I can't." George Michael forced his hand away from where it had been and tried to get up. She was on top of him. "Move away," he demanded.

"Why," she said, trying to grasp hold of his hands, but he instantly moved them away.

"This is wrong, I can't do this." He pushed her of and she fell to the floor. He did not help her up and she did not get up. She suddenly felt very foolish as he covered himself up, putting on a dressing gown that had been hanging by the door. She wanted to be covered up; putting her hands in front of her breasts and crossing her legs, trying to conceal what a moment before had had touched and caressed. She felt embarrassed and humiliated, and when he left the room, leaving her all alone in her nakedness she felt another feeling. A feeling of pure anger. She threw one of the books that was on his desk across the room, then she quickly put on her pyjamas and dressing gown. She refused to cry, but instead silently cursed George Michael Bluth for what he had just done. She felt all the pleasure slowly subsiding, being replaced with hatred so strong her hands had upon their own accord formed themselves into fists, the blood being drained from them as they tightly dug into her hands to the point of pain. She refused to cry. She was just angry and furious at what he had just done to her. She must have stayed in her room for an hour, fuming, raving and pulling out her hair. Why did she have to feel this way? Why did he have to be her cousin and why did he, knowing that, not stop her sooner? She pondered these thoughts as she made her way slowly downstairs to the kitchen where, unbeknown to her, her uncle Buster and a very angry mother was waiting.