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Several authors are coming out with stories based on the various versions of “Maggie May” or “Maggie Mae.” The story titles will be: “Maggie May – author’s pseudonym” e.g. “Maggie May — Jake Rivers”
The storyline might use any version or combinations of versions. Some of the possibilities are songs by: Rod Stewart, John Lennon, Yoko Ono, Suzanne Vega and any of the various traditional versions from England (an early version of this song dates to before 1830, and it was often sung as a capstan shanty. It later became popular in the 1950s & 60s amongst the Liverpool skiffle groups). There are other versions I haven’t listed.
This is my third semi-annual “invitational.” The initial one was based on the Statler Brother’s song, “This Bed of Rose’s.” The second used the Marty Robbins El Paso trilogy: “El Paso” “El Paso City ” and “Faleena.”
Regards, Jake Rivers
I’d been lying awake for a couple of hours, watching the light of dawn slowly creep in around the blinds that covered her bedroom windows. Recently I had been pondering my life and the direction — or misdirection — it seemed to be taking. As the first rays of sunlight peeked through the slats, I turned my head to stare at my companion, who was still lost deep in her night’s sleep.
The sunlight really wasn’t very complimentary to Maggie. She was 41 years old, more than twice my 20 years. She was still a beautiful woman, just as she had obviously been all her life. Yet in the sunlight, the wrinkles around her eyes and around her mouth were signs of her increasing age. Still I could not deny that I loved Maggie May. She had done so much for me … and yet I couldn’t help but think that my life was in limbo because of her love.
* * *
I was a boy of 18, living in the body of a grown man, when I first met Maggie. I had left home to continue my education at university, my first time of any significant length away from my parents. I’d always had Mom and Dad to fall back on and provide me with direction.
Now I was 300 miles from home, with just enough money to get me through a month if I squeezed every dime. By then, my folks would send me another check and so on, for the time it took me to get my degree. Then Dad expected me to earn my own way.
I had little problem getting moved into my dorm room. I had brought just the necessities with me; no boom boxes, no high-end stereos, no TV set, nothing that didn’t apply to clothing or study. I assumed that all university students lived to study — how naïve was that?
The third day I was on campus was registration day for new students. Following instructions like a robot, I went to the huge hall in the administration building basement where total chaos reigned. I finally figured out that everyone had to join the longest line first, which led to a table where several women were seated; pulling forms from card file drawers. I got in line and waited, moving up a step at a time until I was at the head of the line in about 40 minutes.
I was standing there wide-eyed, watching all the activity in the huge hall. There had to be at least five times the population of my high school in the hall right then, and that was only freshmen! I heard a shrill whistle and looked back at the table to see one of the women trying to get my attention. Embarrassed, I walked over in front of her.
“Name?” she asked, as she looked me up and down.
“Jackson Keller — Jack,” I said.
“Do you have a picture ID of some kind?”
“Um … will a driver’s license do?”
She smiled. “Sure.”
I handed her my driver’s license and watched as she scrutinized all of the data before she checked the picture against my real life image.
She began to thumb through a computer printout and quickly found my name. One of the other women shoved one of the card file drawers at her. She thumbed through the drawer until she found what she wanted and pulled out a 5×8 card. Confirming the information was correct, she handed me the card.
“Okay, look, Mr. Keller. We’ve got some problems with your high school records. You’re okay to go ahead and register today but I need to see you in my office tomorrow. If we can’t get this worked out, you will not be allowed to attend classes so be there.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I gulped out. “Where do I …?”
“Second floor, room 237. Ask for Ms. Maggie Carrington.”
“Yes, ma’am. What time should I …?”
“I’m going to be very busy tomorrow. Why don’t you make it about 4:30, okay?”
I nodded and backed away. She pointed me toward the English Department, the first class on my list. I wandered though the rest of the day, going from one department’s cluster of tables to another until I finally had a working class schedule. Dazed and tired, I stumbled back to the dorm.
I wasn’t too dazed to make it downstairs with my roommate when it came time for dinner. I learned in a hurry that a dorm full of college men lined up quickly when it came time to pass out the food. Naturally I just became one of them.
The following day I set out to escort istanbul find out a little more about the campus. The school advertised that their campus comprised more land than most universities and I soon became a believer, since I had to cover it on foot. I located the buildings where all my classes were located. On Mondays-Wednesdays-Fridays, I would have ten minutes to leave one building, walk three-quarters of a mile and get to a classroom in another building; that would be stretching it.
A little after four o’clock, I turned toward the Administration Building. It was a few minutes walk but I’d be early so I slowed my pace down to a leisurely stroll and began to enjoy the sights of the campus for the first time. The buildings were impressive, the landscape was nice and uncrowded – and the women were plentiful.
Even taking my time, I had to kill ten minutes sitting on a bench just inside the Admin Building foyer when I arrived. Finally just before 4:30, I walked up to room 237 and asked for Ms Maggie Carrington. I was directed down a short inner hall to a row of small offices and found her name on the second door.
She was standing beside a coat tree putting on a light jacket when I knocked. She turned and glanced at me with a frown that changed to a small smile.
“Oh, yes. You’re Mr. …?”
“Keller … Jack Keller,” I replied.
“Oh, yes. I had about forgotten. Just a minute.”
She turned back to her desk — not difficult in the small office — and picked up a card. It looked like the same 5 x 8 card I had used the day before during registration.
“Listen,” she said, “it’s been a long day. Do you like coffee?”
“Okay, how about going with me to get some coffee and we can talk about this little problem. Hopefully it is just a misunderstanding.”
“Okay.” I assumed she meant going to one of the local watering holes.
She closed and locked the office door behind us and then we walked down a back staircase and out the opposite side of the building from the doors where I had entered. I assumed we’d be going to her car but we walked past the parking lot, down one of the streets that cut through the campus, and across the road that bounded the school on that side. In the middle of the second off-campus block, she turned up the walk of a house.
I was surprised, to say the least, that she unlocked the door of a private residence and invited me in. I meekly followed her and waited while she hung her jacket on a hook on the hall wall. She took me into a comfortable looking living room.
“Have a seat, hon, and let me put the coffee on. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay. Please take your time,” I replied.
I heard her moving around in the kitchen for several minutes and then the sounds faded. For several minutes it was so quiet the only sound I heard was my heart beat and the ticking of a big grandfather clock. I couldn’t tell which was louder.
Well, I did hear the distant sound of coffee perking but it wasn’t all that intrusive. And after a bit even that sound faded away. Shortly after that, I heard the shuffle of feet, like rubber or soft soled shoes scuffing over a hard floor. That was followed by the sound of cups being moved and then a chair scraping the floor.
“Come on in here, hon. We’ll drink our coffee and see if we can figure this out,” she called.
I rose and walked toward the voice, soon finding myself in a kitchen/dining room combination. She was sitting on the long side of a dining table pushed against one wall, with another chair pulled out beside her, a mug of steaming coffee sitting in front of it.
She gestured toward the chair when I hesitated, so I moved to it and sat down. I noticed that she had changed clothes and was now wearing a lightweight robe, loosely drawn together by a belt at her waist and ending just below her crossed knees. The fragrance of fresh coffee wafted up to my senses — as did the soft smell of roses.
“I hope you like flavored creamers, hon. I’ve become addicted to them,” she said, offering me a decanter of french vanilla creamer.
“I like them too,” I said, pouring a dollop into my mug.
Her small portfolio was open on the table and she had a couple of cards in front of her. One I recognized as my registration card but the other, a blue card, was new to me.
“Okay,” she said. “Here’s the problem. As you know from our catalogue, you are required to have four full credits in high school English for the course of study you’ve chosen. How many did you take?”
“I took English all four years of high school.”
“How many did you pass?”
“I passed all of them. I didn’t have a grade lower than A- in any English class,” I replied a little astounded.
“Really?” She raised her eyebrows in question. “Your transcript doesn’t show that.”
“No? I … I’m puzzled. Can I see?”
“Sure,” she said, holding the blue card over so we could both look at it. “See, here’s the freshman class with an A+ final grade, your sophomore class with escort bayan istanbul an A-, and your junior class with another A+ final. But there is no senior English class.”
She used a pencil to point down the list of classes from my final year and I had to agree there was no English class listed. Most of the classes were listed in cryptic notation but easy enough to interpret: Phys was high school physics, Trig/Pl.Geo was a half year each of trigonometry and plane geometry, etc. But there was no English class.
However there was a class called Emg’osj OV. Try as I might, I couldn’t think of a class I had taken that would fit that description — until I began to think back to my old typing class. No, it wasn’t the typing class but having been trained to use a QWERTY keyboard, I thought about the letters. Hm … if someone typing the information had used the home key with the left hand but moved the right hand one key to the right, English IV would become Emg’osj OV.
I began to explain what I thought had happened to Ms Carrington. At first she was skeptical but then she pulled out her little electronic notebook and checked the keyboard, then laughed at what she saw.
“Okay, I can see how this could happen. I’m going to assume that everything is okay. We’ll write to your high school and ask for a corrected transcript but that should work out fine. How’s your coffee?”
“Excellent,” I replied, suddenly in a better mood.
When her left foot, dangling a soft house shoe, grazed gently up my left leg, my mood became even brighter. I was sure she had done it by accident but I would have that little gesture in my memory banks to think about later.
Ms. Carrington put the cards back in her portfolio and closed it as she was asking me about my interests. I told her I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with my life, which was why I was taking a generalized course of study — liberal arts, whatever the heck that meant.
I had played several instruments since I was a kid, working with a small group of friends on rock and roll music. We’d played a few paying gigs and a lot of ‘just for fun’ things, good enough to receive some kudos here and there but probably not good enough for the big time.
She asked whether I was interested in sports. I told her that I liked almost all sports but mostly as a spectator, although I’d played a few here and there. Mostly I had spent my playing time at the back room pool table of Casey’s Uptown, a little bar and grill not too far from my home; I’d played well enough to win enough money to take a girl out for a movie and Cokes most weekend.
She laughed frequently at the way I told her my story but I got a kick out of the way she kept rocking from side to side, patting my arm when she found something humorous. I don’t know how it happened but somewhere along the way our chairs scooted together until her hip was resting along my leg. It didn’t take long for the heat from our touching to work its way to my brain and back to my crotch, causing me to become very uncomfortable as my cock stiffened.
I asked her about herself, wondering if she was married. She said that she had been fresh out of college herself. She was in love with a guy who made her feel good. For a few years, the feelings lasted but then they began to drift apart. After nearly five years together, she realized she didn’t know the man she was married to and he felt the same. They had parted ways amicably and she had been alone ever since. It seemed to me that she emphasized the “alone.”
During the telling of her story, it seemed so intimate that when she put her hand on my thigh, I didn’t think anything of it … at least, not at first. However before long, that touch combined with our legs pressed together renewed the lust in my brain and the struggle in my jeans. Several times her hand lightly stroked down my thigh and back up, coming within fractions of an inch of touching my growing — and groaning — manhood.
No, it was me struggling with the groaning; I was barely able to suppress the sounds as her fingers plied my leg. It just had to be an innocent occurrence. This lovely, mature lady couldn’t possibly be coming on to an inexperienced wallflower like me. I became afraid that she was going to make me cum — without actually touching my most sensitive parts!
She startled me when she squeezed my thigh hard and asked, “Would you like to see the rest of my house?”
“Yes! Yes, I would,” I replied, ready to do anything to save myself the embarrassment of staining my jeans.
“You said you like to play pool. Let’s start in the basement. Come on down,” she said, leading me down a flight of stairs.
At the bottom was a finished basement with an old couch on one wall, a couple of straight-backed kitchen chairs on the other side and the middle devoted to a slightly scarred pool table.
“This was my husband’s but when he left he didn’t have any place for it and he’s never come back for it. I play a little but mostly it goes unused. Wanna play a game?”
“Sure,” bayan escort istanbul I said.
For the next few minutes, we played. She had just been modest about her abilities and she gave me a run for my money, although I beat her barely.
Leaving our cues on the table, we went back upstairs for the tour. I’d seen most of the ground floor so we made quick work of that and then up another flight. One bedroom had been turned into a craft room while another was a guest bedroom. Last was the master bedroom. She had a little smirky smile on her face as she showed me her room.
The room was large with a king-size bed and was decorated in pastels. There was a soft pervading fragrance just like the rose perfume she wore; I closed my eyes and inhaled, savoring the scent.
When I opened my eyes again, she was standing with her hands on her hips, holding the open robe back, showing a voluptuous body clad only in bra and panties.
“Honey, do you like what you see?” she asked in a whisper.
Too stunned to answer, I nodded my head vigorously.
“Would you like to have some of it?” she asked, in an even hoarser whisper.
“Y … yes!” I managed to croak.
“Then you need to come take it, honey,” she invited.
As I closed the two steps between us, she turned her face upward to meet mine. Our lips met in a hot, searing kiss. Her tongue darted into my mouth and began searching. I returned the favor, not sure what I was searching for but loving the activity.
My hands found the robe and eased it off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Sliding my hands behind her shoulders, I pulled her to me and felt her breasts press into my chest. Our kiss became hotter, more demanding, more satisfying.
* * *
Ah, yes, the sex had been fantastic. Thinking back on it, I’m amazed that Maggie had that much patience with a partner as she had with me. She put up with my blind groping and haste to teach me how to make love instead of just rutting like animals. She taught me the enormous value of long slow foreplay and how heating her up in turn raised my subsequent pleasure level by several multiples. She taught me how to love the taste of my partner and how to use my tongue to please her.
She taught me that paybacks can be a huge treasure, when her lips closed over my manhood and her tongue explored my most sensitive areas. She taught me the exquisiteness of the hundreds of different positions, instead of just the in-your-face, slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am missionary position. And she taught me the wonders of cuddling while still in the throes of passion, making ourselves as near to one being as possible.
That first time was just the start of something that has lasted more than two years. At first we just met once every couple of weeks but it became more and more frequent. Before the end of my sophomore year, I was living at her house, going back to the dorm only occasionally for different clothes.
That summer, I found a job locally so I didn’t have to leave her. My parents were disappointed that I wasn’t coming back home for the summer but they understood that I needed the job for my next year’s expenses. I told them I was renting a room from a local person, but I didn’t tell them I was sleeping in her bed!
During the early weeks of the summer, Maggie worked just a few hours each week, since there was not much to be done in her department at that time and the work was spread among several people. Later she would spend more time at work as the fall term approached but at the time, she wanted to monopolize all of my non-working hours. In fact, I felt like if I could have gotten out of work, she would have been much happier for me to keep her company.
We sailed through June. I went to work every morning and hurried home to be with Maggie as soon as I got off work. Sometimes she wanted wild passionate sex when I arrived. At other times, she just wanted to sit on the sofa and cuddle next to me. I tried to accommodate her moods, letting her dictate our evenings. Virtually every one ended up with some kind of sexual activity and then us falling asleep spooned together, her nicely rounded ass pressed back into my crotch while my arms circled her.
July and August were more of the same, although towards the end of the summer her time at work grew by several hours a week. Still when we got home together, Maggie was the epitome of the lonely but devoted lover, unable to wait until we were touching, kissing, cuddling.
Just before Labor Day, I took time to register, although I didn’t have the enthusiasm for classes that I’d had the previous year. For some reason, it just didn’t seem to be important. I stayed with Maggie since she promised that I would always have a place to sleep in her house and she begged me not to move back to the dorm.
When September rolled in and classes started, I found it difficult to get into studying. I didn’t know why, because I had always wanted to have an education to rely on for making a living but now that goal seemed much more distant than before. Yet when I arrived home determined to hit the books and get with the program, Maggie would be there softly “demanding” that I pay her attention, that I listen to the events of her day, or that I simply hold her while she snuggled. Day after day, my study time was spent on Maggie.
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