Margot knew she'd made a fool of herself.
She'd blushed like a teenager, stuttering like an imbecile. It only took two gray eyes, set in a silent, smiling face to turn her into a helpless puppet. She, a thirty-seven-year old woman, an experienced, professional waitress had stood frozen in the mocking headlights of a flirty customer.
It should have annoyed her, shouldn't it? But it hadn't. She'd been... captivated. She kept circling the woman's table, although she had no business there -- it was another girl's table.
There were two burning candles on that table, it seemed -- one real, the other the woman's gaze, drawing her like the moth she'd become.
What was wrong with her?
Customers watched her all the time, didn't they? Some overtly, others on the sly. Many flirted, either playful or rude; mostly men, sometimes women. She was still attractive, even at thirty-seven with her auburn hair and well-shaped legs.
It also didn't hurt her tips, did it?
So, why this teenage-like rush whenever the gray eyes found her? And why the pang of disappointment when she saw the woman had suddenly left, not even greeting her? One moment she'd been there, smiling, staring; the next she was gone without a word while Margot had been busy elsewhere.
It left her dizzy with confusion.
Why?
What was so special? There'd been just this middle-aged, well-preserved, no doubt wealthy woman in a gray business suit, short, slicked back hair. Just another anonymous dinner guest.
And anyway, nothing really happened, did there? It must be all in her mind; her silly, overheated, incurable mind.
When would she ever learn?
Then Mandy, the girl whose table it had been, handed her a small note. It had the size of a folded business card, but it only held a few handwritten words and numbers; and it smelled of expensive perfume.
Margot stared at the card, feeling the world slip away from her while her heart jumped into her throat. Waves of inexplicable relief crashed over her, leaving her stretched out like a scrubbed beach after a tropical storm.
All kinds of debris and jetsam were washed out into the ocean. And somewhere behind this haze an irrational certainty rose that she'd been offered something important.
If only she had the courage to grab it.
"Aaaah," Margot mused an hour later, sitting in her car in front of her apartment building, "courage..." And with a groan she crawled out, walking the few steps to her front door.
The cat meowed at the sound of her key.
***
Of course, Margot knew what was going on with her. She recognized the buzz and the tingling; the mindless need and the animalistic lust. The emotions just weren't... welcome, were they?
Not now, not ever again.
She hated falling in love.
To most people, falling in love has become such a sugared and honeyed idea that we tend to forget what a mind-fucking experience it can be -- cruel and destructive.
As Margot drank a glass of cold water at the sink, still wearing her coat, she wondered why it had always been like that with her, almost since the first time she touched her little girl's clit and had an orgasm.
She didn't know it was called that. She not even knew it existed; her finger just followed the urge the little button radiated.
She was so young then.
The climax took her with surprise, but she knew at once she needed more, ever more. She wouldn't want to live without that hot, deep feeling again. Hooked, she grabbed every free and secret moment to drown herself in the steaming sensations.
She masturbated in bed, in closets, in showers. She did it on her bike, even in classrooms. She used fingers and fruit, sticks and even bottles.
Then she found this incredible buzzing wonder they call a vibrator.
Somehow it took Margot ages to see sexuality as a social thing. The clumsy way boys came on to her did not agree at all with her idea of sex. To her sex was a soft and overwhelming thing -- such a private sensation that it excluded other people, any other people.
Then she met the freckled girl.
She was what people called a tommy girl -- quick and funny and cheeky. She had orange hair and her entire skinny body was ablaze with freckles.
She looked as if she'd been dipped and rolled in them.
One afternoon, Margot changed into a swimsuit to join the school's swimming lessons. She stood naked in the tight enclosure of one of the pool's antiquated bathing boxes, when the door behind her suddenly opened. A freckled girl let herself in. She giggled and pressed her finger against her mouth to urge Margot to be silent. Margot was stunned by the girl's easy ways. She did not move at all when quick little hands tore down the top of her suit, cupping her small, budding titties.
"Shhhhh", the girl whispered and closed her hot lips around a nipple.
Margot felt her knees weaken; a hot bolt flashed through her body as heat spread from her assaulted nipple into her chest and belly.
A soft moan escaped her mouth.
The freckled girl looked up with quick blue eyes. Grinning, she said: "You like this, don't you?"
Then she sank to her knees and pulled off the rest of the bathing suit. She pushed her freckled face between Margot's pale thighs, forcing them to spread.
It was the first time ever that Margot felt something penetrate her down-covered pussy which she didn't control. A hot, wily tongue stabbed into her body. A busy finger rubbed her clit. It did not take the girl long to push Margot into an orgasm.
She screamed her ecstasy into the knuckles of her fist.
In the weeks that followed, she met the girl almost daily. They made love in every way two women can. The girl educated her with an authority beyond her age. She finally taught Margot how the pleasures of sex were infinitely more satisfying if consumed with someone else.
Someone you fell in love with.
Ever since those weeks with the freckled girl, falling in love became a reflex for Margot. But it soon turned from marshmallow sweetness into scary, helpless routine. Soon, her soul wore scars and bruises -- the first one from the freckled girl that had left her after a few weeks without a word.
Each scar was the remnant of a reckless love dearly paid for.
Since the day in the bathing box she collected crushes like other children would collect dolls or stamps. Her green eyes were wide open doors. It took years for her to realize that most people just walked into those doors without wiping their feet, plundering her store, taking all her precious things, then leaving without a word.
***
From the moment Margot let herself into her apartment, words rushed out like a torrent. It was her usual, but decidedly one-sided conversation with her feline companion.
After feeding the animal, she shed her work clothes and slipped into the shower, letting herself drown in the hottest possible mixture of water.
Ah God, this was good.
She treated herself to rich layers of fragrant soap and shampoo. Then she scrubbed each tingling inch of skin until it shone brightly, blushing like a sunset. And when, at last, she made the shower stop, she heard herself sing.
It was a name.
Stopping right in the middle of it, she blocked her mouth with her hand. Then she shrugged. Grinning, she wrapped herself in the huge terrycloth bathrobe she'd stolen from a hotel on her last holidays. Feet in slippers, hair in a towel she flip-flopped to her small pantry, putting on a dented kettle. She selected her mail, while she waited for the water to boil.
All she found were two bills and a lot of advertising junk.
Armed with a giant mug of herbal tea, she sank into the one, big easy chair, automatically grabbing the remote control. Her zapping was even more thoughtless than usual, creating a carnival of colors. She stared without seeing, listened without hearing.
My God, she thought she'd grown out of this.
Was this her? Some unknown middle-aged woman stared at her from a table in the restaurant and she felt like a moonstruck teenager. Her heart beat like a jackhammer each moment she thought of her.
Nice!
Margot shrugged and tried to concentrate on a news broadcast. Somehow tonight's shipwreck off the coast of New Foundland could not muster her interest at all. Sorry, poor drowned fishermen, but this girl's head is too cramped with other thoughts to let you in.
She emptied the mug and killed the TV set.
The muffled, eternal drone of the city around her seeped into the room. Fresh memories took shape in the theatre of her mind, projecting disturbing images on the invisible screen.
Her left hand opened the top of her robe.
She touched and weighed her soft right tit. Its texture felt so familiar, its warmth. The stiffening flesh on top of it was sensitive, so easy to please.
She closed her eyes and let out a little moan.
Then her other hand slipped between her thighs. It softly pressed the damp patch of pubic hair, cupping the pulsing roundness.
A slow finger slid up and down her slit.
Images of rich, female bodies careened through her mind. She saw sparkling gray eyes and juicy lips. There were scents and fragrances, sounds and touches. She felt the weight of bodies -- of wet, tightening muscles.
Two of her fingers slipped past her swelling lips, finding the pink flesh inside. Two other fingers pinched and rolled a reddened nipple.
They forced moans from her mouth.
Margot's head lolled back on her arching throat. She found her little guardian of lust; it swelled into fullness under the pressure of her wet fingertips. She increased the speed, using her nails as she scratched greedily through pain and numbness until new flames were kindled, a new blaze grew.
Her hand became a blur against the paleness of her skin. Her muscles tightened to focus on her probing hand. A hot flash seared through her, spreading from the center to find the shivering ends of her nerves.
Her breathing increased, becoming shallow.
