Maggie’s heart began wildly thumping and her knees were wobbly with adrenaline; the shirts and slacks and jackets that hung about her and packed close on their hangers suddenly smelled so strongly of George that he might just as well have been present. ) and, somewhat incongruously, The Art Of Anal Sex. She took a last look through the video camera’s view glass, made sure the sound was on, and poured herself some wine.
She reached back into the drawer and removed with one grasp the three boxed videotapes that had been stacked on her portrait: Anal Blondes – Vol. Maggie’s breathing had condensed to coarse, rapid pants and with considerable effort she inhaled a roomy breath to clear her head and slow her pulse. She preemptively poured a tall scotch & ice for George.
She drew up a leg in acquiescence and he scratched and dabbed at her clitoris through the denim while she ground her hips between his legs, neither of them watching the television they were looking at, his erection threatening so much greater now than when they were kids; when they were both thirteen and George was outweighed and out-muscled by a coltish, teenaged Maggie and she could, and would regularly, wrestle him down at will; when he was still unaccustomed to wet dreams and a thought of sex, or arithmetic, or Spring, or the wind equally could make his penis stiffen, and Maggie’s breasts were still just blossoms and her cupcake-butt only boyish as his, and rough-housing with his boy-crazy sister at night in front of the t.v.
always happily resulted in her playfully dry-humping him through their nightwear during commercials and they had enjoyed each other’s company alone those evenings far too much for even their own comfort.
§§§ Maggie found George’s porno stashed in an otherwise empty third drawer of a dresser set back against the far wall of his walk-in closet.