Desire
Maggie Evans had some odd experiences living at Collinwood. Sometimes, when she was alone years later she'd think about them. On a cold February night, yes cold even for a native resident of Maine, she lay on the sofa in her comfortable little house. An old afghan was draped across her legs and a cup of hot tea sat on the end table. It was while she sank against the soft worn cushions that she began to remember a night like this long ago...
She closed the door to David's room quietly. He was finally asleep. With all the running around and playing he did today she had thought he'd been asleep hours ago. But no, Amy had snuck into his room after Maggie had put her to bed and the two of them were whispering about an imaginary friend. They seemed to have thought him up the day before. Yes him. They swore that the man they held conversations with was a full grown man, an ancestor of the present family named Quentin Collins.
Maggie could understand thinking up a little girl or boy their own age, but a man? It was rather odd, but then one could never know what children would think up next. An imaginary trip to the moon, an invisible dog, maybe an imaginary man wasn't so odd after all. After making sure that the little girl was also asleep in her bed, Maggie walked toward her own room.
As soon as she opened the door, she had the strangest sense of a presence in the room. She quickly turned on the light only to find no one there. "It's this house." she thought. With all the creaks and groans of the old house that she heard, not to mention the weather, her tired mind was playing tricks on her. She pulled her jumper over her head and set it neatly folded at the edge of the bed, next came her shirt. Maggie knew what a chore laundry could be. She'd done it for years when she lived alone with Pop. Pop. She let out a sad sigh. "I'm here now, David and Amy need me now that Vicki's gone. Mrs. Stoddard needs me." She had just unhooked her bra when a cold chill crept along her spine.
Clutching it to her she whirled around quickly. There was no one there. She gave a nervous laugh. "I've really got to get to bed." She finished removing her bra and set it with the rest of her clothes. Then in stockinged feet she padded over to the dresser and pulled out a clean night gown. She put it on quickly to ward off the chill. The soft material whispered over her skin as she slipped it on. She brushed her hair quickly and turning out the light got into bed.
She loved these moments. When she was alone in a nice warm bed, darkness enveloping her. This was the moment she waited all day for. She took hand and rubbed it down her stomach. She loved the feel of her hands on her body here in the dark. She slipped it under her nightgown and cupped an aching breast. This was her ritual, as she'd done a thousand times before. Undress, brush hair, get into bed, touch herself and then drift into sleep.
Her hands were warm and soft. She closed her eyes as she pinched and rubbed a hardened nipple. She was starting to get wet, so wonderfully wet and hot. And throbbing, how she throbbed down there. She slipped her other hand into the waistband of her panties, yes she was getting wet. She gently touched that small source of pleasure, rubbing and pressing until she gasped. The need was so strong, the need for a man inside her. She remembered the first night she had lain with Joe, how gentle he was. She had begged him to go faster, her wanton behaviour surprising herself. Then oh how he had pounded into her! How she cried out with pleasure, how wet she became.
She slipped a finger inside, and then two. Probing, thrusting, snaking in and out. Three fingers. Fingers slick and wet and fevered. Fingers in a frenzy, a rhythm as old as time. In and out, faster, harder. She bit back a moan as she gushed the hot juices of her pleasure. She shook and bucked. Then she withdrew those fingers, and brought them to her lips. Where she licked and sucked away the traces of her climax. She was so tired, she was always tired afterward. Laying her head down on the soft pillow, she slept.
She did not know how long she was asleep when she was awakened by again feeling a presence in her room. Her heart pounding, she sank back against the bed. "Who's there?" she whispered frightened. "David? Amy? Who's there?" there was no answer. Overcome by a strange burst of courage she bolted upright and dashed for the light switch. The lights came on instantaneously. She was alone. Feeling foolish she turned off the light and again climbed into bed. She lay on her side and closed her eyes when she unmistakably felt a hot breath against her ear.
She froze. There was someone there after all. She felt a weight upon the bed beside her and a hand snaked around her waist. It was a man's hand, firm and strong. "Joe?" she wondered, no it could not be Joe. Who then? It couldn't be Roger Collins! She couldn't imagine him in such an embrace. Who was this man who held her so intimately? She turned her head quickly and stifled a scream.
It was a man, one she had never seen before. His face was bathed in a greenish light and visible plain as day. He gave her a taunting smile and she froze in terror. "Who are you?" she asked her voice shaking and ragged with fear. "What do you want with me?" The man made no answer, only that same half smile. His eyes bored into her hungrily. Startling, electrifying eyes. Eyes so beautiful, so sensual. So dangerous. Yes he was dangerous.
She opened her mouth to scream, but those eyes stopped her. They seemed to hold an unspoken threat, a warning. He shook his head silently and held her to him. She struggled, thrashing and kicking as hard as she could. He was strong, His arm that held her immobile was like a band of steel. He seemed to speak to her with his eyes. She could almost hear words form in her mind.
He kissed her then. A harsh cruel kiss. A kiss that seemed to mask a passion beneath that could not be anger or fear or hate. An animal passion. One that seemed to say to her "surrender your body to me, you have no choice. No desire to defy me. No desire to resist me. For I am what you desire most."
She relaxed her body. She let him kiss her. He touched her then, touched her with large strong hands that seemed to skim freely over fire. She let him touch her. Let him bring her pleasure with his fingertips. And when he made to enter her she did not stop him. Under the blankets he parted her thighs and touched her, making her ready for him. He stroked her and mimed his forthcoming action with his fingers. Making her so unbearably hot, so wonderfully wet. She whimpered, begging him to take her. Silently, quickly like a panther that pounces on it's prey, he did.
He stretched and filled her. He was larger than Joe. She had not expected this, but it was not uncomfortable. It could hardly be called uncomfortable. His powerful, smooth strokes reminded her of a horse she'd once seen. There was a small farm on the outskirts of town, and one afternoon when she and Joe were coming back from a day out they happened to see horses in a pasture. A large brown stallion mounting a much smaller mare. Thrusting into her, so powerfully so unmercifully. Joe had slid his hand across her leg and asked her softly "does that make you quiver and shake Maggie? Does that make you wet?" and it did.
As wet as she was now with this silent stranger. This man who seemed to be part beast himself, for he was as powerful and self assured as the animal she remembered so vividly. Deeper he drove into her, harder. It almost hurt it was so wonderful. She let loose a primal scream against his lips. It was muffled as she met her release. She lie back panting and closed her eyes. There was a soft knock at her door. "Maggie?" Mrs. Stoddard called softly from the other side of the door. "Are you alright? I thought I heard a noise. "I'm fine." she assured the other woman as she opened her eyes. The mysterious man was no where to be found.
It seemed odd to her later than this man who had given her a glorious night of passion would later try to strangle her. But man, and yes, woman possesses many strong passions. There is a thin line between love at hate. Perhaps what he gave her that night was out of hatred. True, he acted like a man possess by hatred, so fierce and powerful was he. And, looking back that was no real tenderness shared. Only a primal urge.
Her tea had gone cold on the end table. The chill she felt earlier had been replaced in her reminiscing by her own hot body heat. The fever that had flown through her blood. She was aroused again. And so she began her nightly ritual, and as always hoped to again find release with a mysterious stranger as she had all those years ago.
The End.