Magnolia's Lover

My mother always figured I'd settle down with a man before I was 23. Stability was important, she always told me. Everybody needs someone to look after them when they're young. I agreed with that part, but I never found a man who lasted more than a week with me. Instead, I found Magnolia Hayes.

I'd applied for a job waiting tables at Magnolia's, a café in a sleepy corner of Mississippi, just a few weeks after I'd made it to the end of my four years studying Chemistry at Ole Miss. I told myself I'd be fine sleeping in my car until I made enough to pay for an apartment; I never counted on finding a job and a home all at once. I didn't count on a lot of things, where Magnolia was concerned; she's always had a knack for catching people off guard, I guess.

It took a week of waiting tables in the place before Magnolia found the sleeping bag in my car. She offered me a room in her house free of charge, and she's never asked me for a dime since then. At the time, I'd take any place with a roof and doors; I didn't know that her house was the biggest in the county. I didn't know much about her..."reputation", either.

By now, I've spent a year sleeping in her spare bedroom at night, waiting tables and mopping floors in her restaurant by day.

When I started as a server at Magnolia's, I thought it was just a cutesy name. I never thought it was named after the woman who'd owned it for fifteen years. Then again, nobody ever calls her "Magnolia" to her face. To me—and everyone else she deigns to speak to—she's just "Miss Maggie".

She's a few years past 30 by now, but she's aged more gracefully than any woman I've ever met. She's got expensive tastes in clothes, liquor and literature, with the bank account to back it up. Magnolia's has the most famous menu in a fifteen-mile radius; there are no slow days at Magnolia's.

And then there are the men. Can't forget them.

Miss Maggie and I don't have much in common, but neither of us has ever stuck to a relationship for longer than a week. Shyness has always been my excuse; Miss Maggie just gets bored easily. She knows that every one of her lovers is replaceable, and she makes sure that they know it too.

No man turns down an invitation to Miss Maggie's house, but nobody ever spends longer than a night as her guest. And for those golden twenty-four hours, men obey her every command. Those are her rules, and Miss Maggie takes her rules seriously.

Tonight, it's one of those rare occasions when she and I have the same night off. I'm walking back to my room with a magazine in hand, planning on a slow night indoors, when Miss Maggie's voice stops me.

"Staying out of trouble, Kara?" she asks playfully, from inside her bedroom.

I look in, and see her sitting back on an armchair in her room, a battered copy of

The Brothers Karamazov

in her hand

.

Just like every night, her hair is an elegant pile of midnight-black curls, styled into a bun and held in place by lacquered sticks patterned with flowers. She raises one eyebrow, as if daring me to give a snarky response.

"Doesn't seem like there's much trouble around here..." I say lazily, walking into her bedroom.

It seems like an innocent enough thing to say, but she keeps at it.

"You're a pretty girl, Kara," Miss Maggie says. "Seems like a shame that you spend so many nights alone."

"We can't all be like you, Miss Maggie," I say.

After two years of sleeping under her roof, I still call her "Miss Maggie," even when I'm not on the job. It's an impossible habit to break.

"Like me?" Miss Maggie repeats innocently. "What do you mean by that?"

One corner of her mouth twitches, in just the vaguest hint of a grin.

Fucking men senseless by candlelight every week,

I want to say.

Making grown men stutter like they've just hit puberty,

I wish I could say.

But I don't.

"Well... You do bring a lot of men around the house..." I say timidly.

"I'm a good hostess," Miss Maggie says. "Nothing naughty about that."

"But..." I begin, and immediately cut myself off. I know that Miss Maggie does more than just entertain, but I don't dare disagree with her.

To my surprise, her grin widens.

"Oh?" she queries. "You don't believe me? What do

you

think I do with my boys?"

My boys.

Something about the possessive quality in her tone raises goosebumps on the back of my neck. She sounds like she hangs men's souls around her neck like trophies, stringing them like so many lustrous pearls.

"Well..." I say, faltering again.

She chuckles mischievously.

"You sound like you've wondered before, girl. Have you? What kind of dirty thoughts have been keeping

you

awake at night?" she asks.

I can tell that she's joking, but the remark is truer than she knows. Since I've moved here, I've heard the sound of men's screams from behind Miss Maggie's bedroom door at least once every month. No matter how tired I might be, I can never will myself to sleep after I hear that sound. Sometimes I hear quivering moans of pleasure, and I know that one of her lovers has hit his climax; other nights, I hear rhythmic yelps of pain, and I imagine her dark-eyed, strong-armed lovers being spanked and whipped at a fast clip. Once or twice, I've gotten bold enough to touch myself while I listen, though I've never dared try for a closer look.

I wish I could just drop the subject. I really do. I don't want Miss Maggie to think I'm obsessed. As sweet as that woman is, I know that she loves her power games; I don't dare let her know how badly I want something that I can't get myself.

Then Miss Maggie speaks five words that I never thought she'd say.

"Do you

want

to know?" she asks, leaving forward.

Keep it together, Kara

. I tell myself.

If she can play coy, so can you.

"Do you want to tell me?" I ask, doing my best to keep my voice level.

Miss Maggie leans back in her chair and gets comfy. With a sweet smile on her face, she thinks it over.

"You know Danny Fenwick, the banker from New Jersey?" she asks me.

Before yesterday, I'd never had any reason to hear the name. Tonight, though, I know his face well enough to recall it on command—well-tanned, with slim cheekbones and silver cheekbones the color of a polished coin. I'd spent yesterday afternoon waiting on his table at the café after he'd scheduled a lunch date with Miss Maggie.

I nod, and Miss Maggie continues.

"I met him over in Atlanta a few months ago. He was there for a convention, and I was catering. We met in the hotel ballroom, after I'd had a chance to break out my best evening dress. The strapless black one. You know the one I mean, right?"

I do. I've seen her wearing it just three times, but every time I can't help but stare as she passes. Involuntarily, I think of sweat trickling into her ample cleavage on a hot day, of the pendulum-like motions of her slender hourglass hips under gleaming black silk.

"Anyway..." Miss Maggie says, "One thing let to another, like it always does. I took him back to my hotel room, we had a few drinks...and then I showed him the

handcuffs

that I tucked into my suitcase."

I feel my breath quickening, oh so slightly.

Handcuffs? For all her old-school Southern charms, I've always suspected that Miss Maggie has a taste for the rough stuff, but I've never dreamed that she'd admit it so blatantly.

"Every girl's got a type," Miss Maggie says, smirking confidently. "I like a man who ain't afraid to leave himself at a woman's mercy. It shows trust. And it's the most intimate thing in the world that you can do."

"What is?" I ask eagerly.

I don't catch myself until after the words have left my mouth. Stupid. I should never let myself sound so curious. Miss Maggie will torture me for weeks with her little verbal striptease if she knows I'm that eager to learn.

But then she flashes her most wicked smile, her apple-red lips curving slowly.

"Dominating a man," she says matter-of-factly. "Testing his limits. Cuffing him to the bed-posts, naked as the day he was born, with a ring around his cock and a blindfold over his eyes. And just seein' how long he'll last until he begs you to stop."

I shouldn't be enjoying this. I shouldn't be enjoying this.

But oh God, as soon as those words leave her mouth, I feel myself growing warm under my white Fruit-of-the-Loom panties, my arms tingling as goosebumps form.

"Danny Fenwick let you beat his ass?" I ask back, doing my best to sound amused. "Was he your first one?"

"Not by a long shot," Miss Maggie says mischievously. "And I did more than just

'beat his ass,'

girl. A hell of a lot more than that. Any bitch with a strong back can swing a whip, and any man worth his weight in spit can take it for at least an hour. But I've got tastes more complicated than that. No... I'm more interested in some of the finer points of torture."

"Torture."

I know I should be scared at the sound of that word. But somehow, Miss Maggie makes it sound like a fine wine or an elegant dance. I feel a chill run up the base of my spine and into my fingertips.

I can't take it any longer. I have to bite the bullet and ask her.

"What did you do to him?" I ask, feeling a tremor of excitement in my voice.

Miss Maggie leans back in her chair and bites her lower lip coquettishly.

"I

could

tell you," she begins, "but how could I do it justice with words? You really had to be there."

I feel my heart sink a bit, until I see Miss Maggie's eyes sparkling with excitement.

"Then again...I could always

show

you," she says.

"Show me?" I ask.

"Sure," Miss Maggie says. "I told Danny to be here at eight for our little follow-up date. We haven't met privately like this in about two months. I know he's eager to see me—and my boys are

always

punctual. They don't dare come late."

"So?" I ask. I hope I sound nonchalant, though I can feel my heart knocking against my ribcage.

Miss Maggie leans in close, with an almost predatory gleam in her eye. Then she asks me the one question that I never thought I'd hear.

"Do you want to watch?" she asks.

I choose my words carefully. If I sound too eager, she'll know to take her sweet time making me wait. If I sound too bored, she might take it as an insult. Miss Maggie's a sweet woman, but she's got a hell of a prideful streak. You don't go from waiting tables to owning restaurants without getting a little bit of an ego along the way.

"How?" I ask, honestly expressing my curiosity.

Does Danny really like to be watched? Would he really let a complete stranger in the room to watch him endure Miss Maggie's little intimate rituals? Hell, maybe he'll do

anything

if Miss Maggie tells him to. Does her domination really run that deep?

Miss Maggie's smirk deepens.

"You're interested, I take it?" she asks.

Damn. Sometimes, I swear Miss Maggie can read minds.

"Uh..." I stutter.

"It's way too late to say

'No,'

Kara," Miss Maggie says smugly. "You could say it if you wanted to, but we both know it wouldn't be true. And you wouldn't lie to my face. Would you, girl?"

She knows. There's no use denying me now. So instead I say exactly what's on my mind.

"Show me," I say faintly.

Miss Maggie looks at her watch.

"Danny's here in fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty, if he gets lost along the way. We've got plenty of time to get ready before then," she says.

"What do we need to do?" I ask, still baffled.

"

We

don't need to do anything," Miss Maggie says sharply. "

You

need to do everything I tell you to do. You got that, honey?"

Her stern tone catches me off guard. A minute ago, she was all coy grins and flirtatious giggles. But now she knows I'm eager for a peek at her little games, and she knows that I'll bend whichever way she wants me to.

"Yes," I say softly, playing along.

"Yes,

what

?" Miss Maggie asks pointedly.

"Yes, Miss Maggie," I respond.

"I'm a businesswoman, Kara," Miss Maggie says. "I've owned and managed my own place for fifteen years, and unless God strikes me down before then, I'll keep it running for another twenty. I've kept it going that long because I've got a shrewd eye for deals, and I understand

cost

. In my world, you don't get anything for nothing. If you want something, you've gotta give something up. Understand?"

"Yes, Miss Maggie," I say, nodding obediently.

"You want to see what I've got in store for Danny? Of course you do—you're a sweet rosy-cheeked little girl who spends every Friday evening scrubbing dishes and busing tables, and you want a glimpse at all those dirty little bedroom games that you're too scared to try yourself. There ain't nothin' wrong with that, so don't go feeling ashamed. But if you want to see, you've gotta take a little bit of my wickedness firsthand. Can you do that?"

I can feel my mind swimming, making me lightheaded.

How the hell should I know? What the hell is she going to do to me?

"Don't bother to answer," Miss Maggie says, cutting me off. "There's only one way to know if you can take it or not. You've gotta throw yourself right into it."

"What do you want me to do?" I ask.

Miss Maggie smiles cruelly, her eyes sparkling.

"There we go," she says. "That's the kind of question I like to hear."

She stands up, arms akimbo, and slides her chair a few feet across the floor so that it faces the television directly. Then she points to it.

"Sit your pretty little butt right there, girl," Miss Maggie orders.

I walk awkwardly across the room, position myself in front of the chair, and sit down without looking around. My hands hang limply by my sides.

I won't show fear. I won't show hesitation. I won't even look at Miss Maggie unless she orders me to.

"Put your hands behind your back, close together," Miss Maggie orders.

I know what's coming now, but I don't dare think about it.

She makes me wait, wrists pressed together, while she walks behind me and rummages around in a drawer. The sound of her heels sounds out hollowly against the wooden floor like a droning heartbeat. When I hear it grow louder, I know she's walking towards me. Still, I keep my eyes glued to the wall in front of me, where her blank flat-screen TV is bolted to the wall.

I feel her warm breath caressing my right ear as she bends down close to me, and it raises goosebumps all the way down to the small of my back. Then I feel some rough material winding around my wrists, binding them tight.

"Feel that? That's rope," Miss Maggie says.

If she wants to watch me squirm in anticipation, I won't give her that. Still, I feel a little tingle at the base of my spine. It only gets stronger when I feel Miss Maggie pulling the ropes tight, looping the ropes through the wooden slats at the back of the chair as she knots them.

"Now try to move your hands," Miss Maggie orders.

I do as she says, but it's no use. The ropes bite into my hands as I try to pull them apart, and I find my hands bound fast to the chair when I try to move them upward.

I hear Miss Maggie chuckle with satisfaction.

"Beautiful knots," she says absentmindedly. "Wish you could see 'em, honey. I've been working on my technique for years now. My mama always wanted me to take up knitting, but knot-tying always suited me better."

I hear her footsteps against the floorboards again as she walks over to my side. Then she kneels down on the floor, and I feel her fingers on my ankle.

"Almost ready," Miss Maggie says. "Just keep your feet still."

I feel her looping the ropes around my left ankle, then my right, binding my feet to the chair legs as she pulls the knots tight.

"Feel like trying to stand up?" she taunts.

I know what's coming, but I don't dare deny Miss Maggie her fun. I try to lift myself into a standing position, but my ass stays planted firm to the chair, my thigh muscles straining futilely against the tied knots.

Then she saunters back in front of me, grinning evilly as she looks me over. I walked into this room as her houseguest—but now I'm a helpless prisoner, and we both know it.

"Makes your heart pound, doesn't it?" Miss Maggie asks. "I ain't never let anyone do it to me, but my boys just go all jittery when the ropes come out. There's nothing like it."

She puts a thoughtful finger to her cheek, as if contemplating my fate. Will she be merciful, or will she draw out my torture until the night ends?

"One last thing," she says mischievously.

She gets down on one knee and leans in close to me, running her hands up my exposed thighs, her fingers inching closer to my crotch. With her fingers steady, she methodically unbuttons my shorts and pulls the zipper down. Slowly, very slowly, she pulls my shorts down—underwear and all—to my tied-up ankles, leaving my pussy vulnerable and exposed.

Natural modesty kicking in, I try to reach for my panties to cover myself, but I know it's no use.

I breathe deep and close my eyes, and I feel Magnolia's hands working their way up my midsection, unbuttoning my shirt.

Christ...

I think, silently chastising myself.

Why didn't I think to wear a bra today?

Magnolia keeps unbuttoning my shirt. Before long, she reaches my breasts, and realizes what I'd hoped she wouldn't.

"Naughty girl," she says disapprovingly, as she finds my breasts bare and quivering. "At least I won't have to strip you down myself."

With my shirt hanging open and limp on my body, I feel her hands savoring my breasts, softly squeezing them and circling the nipples with her fingers. I know I can't fight her, so I throw my head back and give a long sigh, surrendering.

"If you were one of my boys, I'd be breaking you in with the whip right about now. But you're a sweet girl. I think you need a more delicate touch," she says, moving her hand down to the space between my legs.

My eyes open with a start, and I look down at her. She looks back at me, a predatory look in her eyes.

"Besides," she says, "This is your first time in the ropes. I figure I oughtta make it special."

With a mischievous wink, she slides two fingers down into my pussy and starts to tickle my clit playfully. My sighs give way to moans as I feel myself growing wetter. As I shut my eyes tight, she withdraws her fingers from my crotch, and brushes her hand across my lips. When I open my mouth in a cry of pleasure, she sticks her fingers into my mouth.

Sucking on her fingers like slender fruits, I taste my own moistness, slick and musky and raw.

She keeps her fingers in my mouth as I feel her lowering her head down to my crotch, her lips brushing my labia with soft kisses.

It shouldn't be like this,

I think, silently panicking.

Ever since puberty, I've dreamed about my first time making love to a woman. None of my fantasies have ever begun like this.

It should be somebody my own age, not my boss and my landlady...

I should be cuddling with my lover on a soft couch, not bound to a wooden chair...

At the very least, I want to see

her

naked first...

But then I feel Miss Maggie's tongue massaging my clit and licking the walls of my moist pussy, and I don't care anymore.

Waves of pleasure crash over me, each one blending seamlessly into the next.

After a while, I lose track of her other hand. First I feel it pinching my nipples, then stroking my thighs, then raking my exposed stomach with sharp nails. After that, everything else is eclipsed by that expanding ball of warmth in the center of my pelvis.

I'm in heaven. I can bask in this feeling forever.

And then...it's over? No. Bullshit. It's not fair.

I wait for my climax, but it doesn't come. Miss Maggie pulls her head back from by pussy and stares up at me with a wicked grin on her face, silencing my protests with an index finger on her lips.