Margie and Me Ch. 08

[Author's note: Well, Gentle Reader, my OCD got the best of me again. My son's wedding led me into the "Wedding Day" series, and my OCD led me to other pursuits. That is surprising since, of all of the things I've written, Margie is the most autobiographical. Yes, she existed and yes, she was the center of my life for almost six years. So let's get back to her, shall we, and see how things a going between her and David.]

I didn't sleep that time. I just lay there, beside her, watching her sleep.

Her makeup was a smeared mess by then. Her hair stood up in little spikes. There was a little crust of dried snot around her nose and she had drooled a little as she slept. She looked oddly innocent right then.

And I was trying, desperately, to process.

"I am yours," she had said. I made her say it but she said it and, in the end, she was meaning it. She had given herself to me. She had given herself to me with no strings attached. It felt like one of those soapy songs from the 50s or 60s. It felt like she had given herself to me, "heart and soul."

So I was processing.

On one level I was flattered and excited and, hell, okay, at least a little bit in love myself.

But on another level I was terrified. I recognized, back when I gave my virginity to my mother and she insisted that I punish her for breaking such a terrible taboo, that I had a wide and deep sadistic streak in me. And here was this woman, twice my age, looking so innocent beside me, who had given herself to me.

My lips wanted to kiss her, tenderly. I wanted to cover her face with little dry butterfly kisses.

But my hand almost literally itched with a desire to slap and pinch and make her cry and scream.

Oh yeah, I was conflicted.

So I watched her sleep. Smiling as she blew a little snot bubble that grew and retreated and grew and retreated and grew and popped.

And it hit me, as I watched her sleep, that on a deep level, way down where I didn't understand, I was hers too.

"Oh fuck," I thought to myself, "Are you in love with her?"

I thought about that for a few minutes, watching a little trickle of drool run out the corner of her mouth, and concluded that my answer was, "Yes."

I resisted the urge to run my palm over the soft round swell of her belly, and watched her sleep.

I resisted the urge to latch on to her nipple, and watched her sleep.

I resisted the urge to wake her and say, "I love you," and watched her sleep.

I have no idea how long I lay there, watching her sleep and processing, before I rolled out of bed, moving very slowly, wanting to let her sleep.

I went to the other bathroom, not wanting to wake her, and then to the kitchen where I made coffee.

Then I went into the front room, turned on the TV although I didn't really hear what the talking heads were saying, sat, and processed some more.

"She's LITERALLY old enough to be your mother," I said to myself.

"She gave herself to you," I replied to myself.

"David," I said to myself, "you're a 24-year-old wannabe college student, she's a, well, a 40-something widow with a job,"

"I think I love her," I said to myself.

"Oh FUCK!" I replied to myself.

"Where are you?" her voice startled me, making me jump and spill a little coffee on my bare leg.

She was standing in the doorway, looking at me. She hadn't washed her face and still looked like, well, like a 40-something, very well-fucked woman.

I got up, went to her, laid my palms flat on her cheeks, and met her eyes with mine. I held her like that, gathering my courage.

She met my eyes with hers, unflinching.

"I love you," I said.

To say that her reaction was not what I expected ranks up there with calling what happened in New Orleans following Hurricane Katrina a leak.

She slapped me and then hit me on the chest about five times, bap bap bap bap bap.

"NO!" she yelled, "Don't ruin it, David."

I wrapped her in my arms, not a hug but a clinch like I was taught in a long-ago boxing gym when my step-father had decided, when I was 14, that I would be the next welterweight champion of the world.

"Don't ruin it," she was saying, over and over, sobbing, wailing, hitting at me ineffectually, "Please, David, don't ruin it."

As she started to run down I eased up on the clinch and started caressing her back, gentling her like you might a frightened dog or a fawn that happened into your backyard. I was saying all that stupid bullshit you say in those situations. "It's okay," "I'm here," "Dave's got you," you know, shit like that.

Finally, she pushed me away and I let her. It was a push, not more hitting.

"Don't ruin it," she said for about the hundredth time, her voice carrying soul-crushing sadness, her shoulders slumping like she had been beaten into submission.

"What," I asked, my fingers under her chin, holding her so she had to meet my eyes, "are you talking about?"

"David," she said, then sniffled, coughed, and wiped at her nose in an angry gesture, "What you gave me the last couple of days is wonderful. Thank you. And yes, I meant it when I said those words. But let's not ruin it."

"Do you love me?" I asked, holding her eyes and genuinely concerned with the answer.

She paused, leaving me in sort of emotional limbo for what felt like a chunk of forever although I know, in my head, it was really just a few seconds, before saying, "Yes, David, I love you."

I started to say something but she touched my lips, stopping me.

"Worse," she said, with a soft giggle, "I'm in love with you, foolish boy."

I started to speak but she did the finger-to-the-lips thing again.

"And I also know I'm fat, pushing 50 pretty damn hard, can never give you children, and in spite of your fascination with these ridiculous udders," she gave those magnificent boobs a shake, "I'm not remotely what you would call pretty."

Another finger-to-the-lips before she wound down.

"So find yourself a girl your own age, have a family, and enjoy your life, Honey," she finished, "I'll be here as long as you want me."

I held her eyes then for a long ten count, making sure she was done.

"Are you done?" I asked.

She giggled softly and said, "Yes, David, I'm done ranting. I'm sorry."

"Okay," I said, taking a deep breath.

"Now," I started and kissed her, "let's start with this." I caressed her breasts and belly before moving my hand around to her ass. "Yes, Margie, you are soft and round. Here's the thing," and I kissed her again, "That is how a woman should be."

She smiled, finally, a real smile.

"Yes, if you are, as you said, 'pushing 50 pretty damn hard,' that makes you roughly twice my age," I kissed her again before I said, softly, my lips close enough to her ear so that I knew each word would be a little puff that she would feel, "So what?"

She started to say something but it was my turn to do the finger-to-the-lips thing.

"I haven't been here long enough to confirm if you're still having periods, but if menopause has come and gone, so what? If we want kids we can adopt. And as for your 'ridiculous udders,'" I went on, "I do want your milk, but I don't have to knock you up to get that."

"Finally," I said, touching her lips again, "no, you're not beautiful and not even 'pretty' in the classical sense of slender with big boobs." I had to touch her lips again when she started to respond, "But you are just as cute as a speckled pup and if you'll get past whatever block you have I still intend to put you into some of those new duds we brought home, take you out, show the world how damn lucky I am, get you a little drunk, bring you home, and make you cum until you beg me to stop."

She giggled at that.

"Duds?" she said.

I grinned, kissed her, and said, "THAT's your takeaway from what I just said?"

She giggled a little.

"But don't," she started but I stopped her again, this time with a kiss.

"I love you," I said when I broke the kiss.

Her tears welled and overflowed again but at least she didn't start hitting me.

"I am yours," she said.

I kissed her, a quick kiss, and said, "I am yours, too."

I held her eyes for several seconds.

"Say it all," I said.

"Oh, God," she sort of moaned.

"Say it all," I said again.

"I am yours," she said, then took a long deep breath and said, "And I love you."

I smiled, kissed her, and said, "Again."

This time she started the kiss, reaching up, putting her hands behind my head and pulling me down, arching her back and pressing herself into me.

"I am yours and I love you," she said.

"Now," I said, "like this."

I kissed her and said, "I am yours," kissed her again and said, "I love you."

She pulled me down for another kiss and said, "I am yours," kissed me again and said, "I love you."

I grinned then.

"Wanna fuck?" I asked.

She laughed at that, her deep belly laugh full of mirth.

"Nuh-uh," she said, "You promised dinner and drinks and I'm getting them before I put out again."

"Well," I said, running my finger over the crust around her nose, "I need to hose you down before you're fit to be seen in public."

"Are you ashamed to be seen with me?" she asked.

"One more word," I said, stepping a little closer to loom over her, "and I'm going to dress you and take you out looking just like this to show the world how lucky I am and what a slutty girl you can be with the proper coaxing."

I thought for a moment she was going to take me up on it and I smiled at the looks we'd draw, but she relented, took my hand, and led me into the bathroom.

We showered together and although it was quite sensual it didn't turn sexual. I guess we were both pretty well satisfied at that point.

Clean and dry I sat her at her little makeup desk, brushed her hair, until it was a nice fluffy cap, and then did her face. I used more makeup than she did, adding a distinct blush, scarlet lipstick, and a blue eyeshadow that I thought would match her new blouse. I carefully plucked and shaped her eyebrows into sexy arches, and added very black eyeliner with little upturned points at the corners of her eyes. Skill with makeup was another gift from my mother.

Satisfied with her face, I put her into the pushup bra we had purchased for her so that she showed a clean eight inches, she giggled when I measured it with a wooden ruler from her office, of cleavage. Her new blue top, the one with short sleeves to show off big soft arms, went over her head. I reluctantly allowed her panties, a pair of the very high leghole French cut we had purchased, she wasn't really built for a bikini or a thong, but left her legs bare. The open-toed shoes with their moderately high heels and ankle straps finished her available hooker look.

I stood her in front of her full-length mirror and watched her eyes as she took her new look in.

"Damn," she said, "maybe I am worth five hundred bucks a night after all."

"Plus extras," I said, breathing the words into her ear, "Now sit and wait and do not fuck up my handiwork."

She giggled and sat at the desk chair very prim, ankles crossed, hands folded in her lap, and back straight. She looked like an advertisement for Madame Somebody's Finishing School for Young Ladies.

I put on my best civilian clothes, khaki slacks, a button-down Oxford cloth shirt, a leather belt, and brown slip-on shoes over brown argyle socks. I ran a brush through my hair, took another look, and was satisfied.

"Okay, then," I said, smiling and offering my hand, "Let's see if there are any likely Johns out there."

She stood but took my hand before following me.

"What if some man says 'yes' to five hundred bucks?" she asked.

I laughed.

"Not a chance," I said, and when her face fell I realized what she must be thinking.

"NO!," I said, grabbing her hand, "I didn't mean you wouldn't have takers at that price. I meant that you would, and I'm not ready to rent you out just yet, so if asked the price will be five thousand, and if he says yes I'll point out that we think that your herpes isn't active right now."

Her eyes got big.

I laughed.

"Would you rather I turned you over to some John but made sure you had cab fare?" I managed.

But she was still serious.

"Do you really think you'll get asked?" she asked.

I realized she was serious.

"Yes," I said, keeping it simple.

She smiled then.

"What a nice compliment," she said, took my hand, and said, "Okay, pimp-o-mine, let's see if I have any takers."