MAYBE BABY Read online

  I finished up in the tack room and ventured back out into the main barn. Thankfully his assholiness was gone. I put fresh straw in all of the stalls, and made sure that all of the water troughs were filled with of fresh water. I carted three wheel barrows full of horse manure out to the compost area dumping them, then rinsed out the wheel barrow. I was more than ready to call it a day. I closed and latched both of the outside barn doors located on opposite ends of the building.

  I was still steamed over Trey Sinclair’s arrogant and domineering treatment of me regarding Derringer.

  (What the fuck?)

  I could not tolerate people who possessed an air of superiority to the detriment of an animal. If he lived out of town, who the hell did he think was exercising the horse properly in his absence? I was making myself hotter with the agitation. I needed to let it go.

  I grabbed my water bottle, taking a long drink as I walked across the pasture towards the wooded area that housed the bank of cottages where the hired help stayed.

  I was halfway across the pasture when I heard the sound of tires peeling out from the winding driveway of the Sinclair’s estate onto the highway. As the car got closer, engine roaring, I glanced over and saw a sleek, black Lamborghini Gallardo convertible speeding along the road. The driver was wearing sunglasses.

  (Ray-Ban no doubt.)

  There was no mistaking the burnished brown hair flying back from that sinfully handsome face.

  As the car passed the pasture from about forty yards to my right, the driver glanced over. For a split second, I thought I could actually make out his smile. He sped by and I was left feeling flustered at myself. I could only imagine the impression I had left.

  Despite the heat and humidity I felt goose bumps prickle my flesh remembering how his arms felt around me; recalling the generous bulge in his jeans. I suddenly picked up the pace anxious to get out of these sweaty, dirty clothes and feel clean again. I emptied the rest of the water in my bottle over my head, but it did little to help.

  (That shower is going to cool me down in more ways than one!)

  CHAPTER TWO

  The bank of cottages was spread across about two acres of land on the estate. There were eight in total, all exactly the same. Two of the eight housed full-time hands that reside there all year long. They have been employed by the Sinclair family for years.

  Cottage #1 was Ray Gillespie’s. I liked Ray a lot. He was in his late fifties and had been with the Sinclair’s for more than thirty years. He was divorced and started working for them after that.

  Ray talked about his ex-wife Shirley occasionally, but most of the time, he talked about his girlfriend Denise. I thought the whole thing with his ex-wife Shirley may have soured Ray on marriage. Ray was gray-haired, with pretty green eyes, a bushy moustache and a sparkling smile.

  Charlie Roberts, the other full-time hand, was quiet and kept pretty much to himself. Charlie was in his fifties, too. No one knew much about his past. Charlie was thin, with close set small eyes, thinning light reddish-gray hair, and a weak chin. My mom said to never trust a man with a weak chin. Not that I held a whole lot of merit to those kinds of warnings from mom, but in the case of Charlie, something seemed amiss. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it bothered me to be near him. Cottage #2 was Charlie’s. It was right up the hill a little bit from Ray’s.

  The rest of the cottages were inhabited by the college help. During fall, winter and spring, first and second year students referred to as “interns” rotated from both Virginia Tech and Virginia Intermont College each semester. The students worked for credits toward their degree programs.

  Ray said a lot of the interns didn’t know their heads from their asses, which was why he liked the more ‘seasoned’ summer crew.

  Apart from the Sinclair’s estate and horse barn, the adjacent plantation was owned by them as well and operated as a horse farm, summer horse track, winery, and tourist attraction. There was a large, pre-civil war mansion that was completely restored. The farm, in its original days had bred thoroughbreds. The lineage to this day could be traced to several modern Triple Crown winners. The estate was called “Le Vie Belle,” which meant “The Life Beautiful.” We all called it the ‘Belle for short.

  The estate currently boasted the mansion, a smokehouse where hams were still cured, a carriage house, servants quarters, and of course, the productive vineyard. There was a turf racetrack where horseracing events were held on weekends during the summer months, drawing in hundreds of tourists. The mansion and winery were open for tours as well almost all year round.

  I snickered to myself thinking about Jenna’s job. She, Rodney, and Neely were the tour guides for the ‘Belle mansion. They wore period costumes and played the parts

  of genuine inhabitants of those days.

  In Jenna’s case, she was a southern belle when leading tours. Jenna absolutely hated the hoop skirts, frilly undergarments, and button-up leather boots she was required to wear on tours during the heat of summer. She had to wear her bleached blond hair in a chignon or a tight bun, with no make-up which killed her.

  Neely worked with Jenna at the mansion. She was sweet, somewhat mousy, but very protective of Jenna for some reason, perhaps out of some misplaced sense of loyalty. I got the idea that Neely didn’t have a lot of friends at Virginia Intermont. She was twenty-two and in her senior year. Jenna was nearly twenty-four, working on her Master's degree. She was planning to teach.

  Rodney was twenty-two and also attended Virginia Intermont. His duties included maintaining the mansion with the other full-time employees at the ‘Belle, and providing horse and buggy rides for the tourists who wished to pay additional for tours of the grounds.

  Rodney was somewhat serious, but could also be a lot of fun. He was really smart and knew a little something about everything. He was a Mississippi native and still maintained a thick southern accent.

  The last of the six was Clint. Clint helped Luke and me at the stables at the main estate where the Sinclair’s lived, and also at the “Belle. Clint was tall, blond, lean and mean. He had a great sense of humor, and was sort of protective of me. He was actually my first friend here. He was twenty-two, and completing his senior year at Virginia Tech in veterinary medicine.

  He loved the horses and handled all kinds of issues with sprains, ligaments, diet and nutrition. Clint was the person who I was assigned to for my initial training. He was very patient and not hesitant to share his knowledge, showing me the ropes around the stables. He knew how overwhelming everything could be between both places. Clint made it all look so easy.

  My cottage was #5; Jenna was in #4; Clint’s was the other side of mine, down a small hill in #6. The cottages were all made of cedar wood, with small, railed front porches. It was great sitting out in the evenings after sunset watching the stars lace the summer sky. The nights were so dark if the skies weren’t clear.

  On those nights, I was guided mostly by the cottage porch lights, counting them until I reached the fifth one. The porch lights were set to automatically come on at dusk. It was a given on weekends, especially for Jenna, to be out until the wee hours if she came home at all.

  (Skank.)

  I laughed to myself as I passed her cottage, seeing a clothesline strung across her front porch with all of her fine delicates dancing in the summer breeze.

  (She definitely has a thing for thong underwear.)

  Butt floss in every color: black, red, purple, blue, green, orange, pink and nude. No panty line worries there I supposed. Several push-up padded bras no doubt from Victoria’s Secret also graced the clothesline. Jenna did not like to take her undies to the laundry room we were allowed to use over at the ‘Belle. She preferred hand-washing and displaying them on her front porch every Friday.

  (Double skank.)

  I reached my cottage, opening the screen door and unlocking the wooden door. I left the wooden door open, hooking just the screen door behind me. The ceiling fan above was on but did little to dissipate the heat and hu
midity within the cottage.

  The main room was L-shaped, combining a small living area with a kitchenette and breakfast bar. There was a pint-sized refrigerator, a microwave, and a couple of cook top burners. The breakfast bar was on the other side of the countertop and had three bar stools.

  The small bedroom was off of the kitchenette, and thankfully, the one window in the bedroom had a room air conditioner unit installed in it. If I closed the door from the kitchenette, and turned the A/C unit on, the room cooled down fairly quickly, even reaching the bathroom that was directly off of the bedroom.

  I went into the small bathroom that had a tub and shower all in one, and decided I would do a bubble bath this afternoon. I deserved to indulge in a nice, long soak after a hard week at work. I turned the faucets on and as usual, the first spurt or two of water was rust-colored. Well water. Jenna hated what it did to her bleached blond hair. It wasn’t a problem for me.

  The water cleared itself of rust and I put the stopper in, adjusting the water temperature to warm, not quite tepid. I put some Calgon powdered softener in, and then a capful of vanilla scented bubble bath. As the tub filled, I kicked off my work boots; peeled off my jeans, top, socks and underwear tossing them into the dirty laundry basket in the corner. Do laundry tomorrow I reminded myself.

  I brushed my sweat soaked brown hair out, and then piled it on top of my head putting a spring clip on it to keep it off my shoulders while I bathed. I grabbed the latest edition of Cosmo off of the sink countertop to finish reading while in the tub.

  A special edition of Cosmo reported yet another type of female orgasm was known to exist. How many did that make total now? Three? Four? I would be happy just to know what one type felt like.

  Something was definitely wrong with me, this much I knew. I was so curious about sex, and especially about good sex, yet my experience had amounted to nothing more than making out, being felt up and down, and some mild finger-banging, none of which had resulted in writhing in ecstasy or screaming in total, fulfilled abandonment. What was the deal?

  I lowered myself into the tub full of soapy bubbles and picked up the body wash, sponge and started scrubbing the day’s dirt off. It felt so good. My skin was starting to tan slightly, though I was careful to use sunscreen when out, but it looked healthy to have some color I decided.

  My thoughts went back to my mom. I wondered if perhaps my exposure to all of her “boyfriends” had resulted in my being frigid or something. I liked guys; I loved the way they walked. I loved the way their muscles moved when they lifted heavy stuff; biceps and triceps bulging like that. Today even, I had to force myself to take my eyes off of Trey’s crotch. God, how freaking lame was that? I blushed thinking about what that bulge looked like under those tight-fitting jeans.

  I unclipped my hair wetting it down with the shower hose. I squeezed a generous amount of shampoo onto my scalp, and started lathering my hair and messaging my scalp. For some reason, I recalled something that happened years back. I must have been about eleven years old at the time.

  I had awoken during the night hearing strange noises coming from my mom’s room. It sounded like she was in pain, or maybe having a nightmare. She was mewling and moaning and it scared me. As I approached her closed bedroom door, I could hear her bed creaking rhythmically and a man’s voice talking to her. I remembered that I was scared he was hurting her but I stopped short of turning the knob to her door when I heard her moan.

  “Oh yeah, baby, and that’s it, right there. Keep fucking me right . . . . there! Oohh, aaah, yes! You have one big cock, lover!”

  The man’s voice came next and I recognized it. It belonged to my best friend Jenny’s dad! I recalled how horrified I was that Mr. Marcotti was in my mom’s bed, doing things to her.

  “Maggie, baby, that is one hungry pussy you have. It was made for my cock,” he rasped loudly. “You gonna come for me, Maggie, huh? You gonna let me come inside you this time? I hate those rubbers, baby, you know you hate them, too!”

  “Ohhhh,” my mom groaned, “This feels sooo good. I don’t want you to stop, baby… but you need to promise not to get me, pregnant, Herb. You promise me that? I couldn't take raising another brat!"

  “Don’t worry, baby, I’m fixed, you know that. I just want you to fill you up with all that I have, okay?"

  “Okay, Herb, I guess it will be okay this time.”

  “That’s my girl,” he soothed. “Now get onto your hands and knees, I need you to suck me just a little bit more. Once you get it all lathered up nice and wet, then I want to take you from behind."

  I recalled hearing the bed creaking, and then after a moment, a soft, wet sucking sound. Mr. Marcotti was breathing loudly and kind of moaning.

  “Do you like that, Maggie? I wish you would teach Patty how to do this, baby. She even asked me why I don’t touch her anymore. You’ve spoiled me Maggie, that’s for damn sure. Yeah, work that magic tongue around it. . uhh….fuck yeah! I could come right now, fill your mouth up and I know you would take it all. God, I’m ready baby. Get in front of me on your knees.”

  There was more shifting and creaking bed sounds coming from behind Mom’s bedroom door.

  “Gently now, Herb,” my mom murmured, “I’m a little tender still.”

  “You got it, baby, we’ll take this slow and easy," Mr. Marcotti's voice was low and hoarse, as if in pain.

  “Oohh yeah, that is good, Maggie, you are so fucking wet. Does it feel good Maggie?”

  “Umm hmm,” my mom’s voice purred, “This is the way I like it . . . oh yeah…”

  The bed started slowly creaking again. Soon I could hear soft moans and whimpers coming from Mom. The springs in the bed were squeaking in rhythm with her moans. Both got louder and louder as the rhythm became faster. Another sound could be heard. It sounded like skin slapping skin? The headboard on Mom’s bed starting banging against her wall, then stopped suddenly.

  “Maggie,” Mr. Marcotti whispered hoarsely, “We better take it down a notch; we’re going to wake Tylar with this entire racket.”

  “Don’t stop now, Herb,” Mom pleaded. “I don’t give a damn who hears us!"

  The sound of skin slapping skin could be heard again; the headboard resumed its banging. My mom’s moans became louder and louder. Mr. Marcotti sounded like he was panting. Finally I heard him talking to Mom, his voice rasping.

  “Are you ready, Maggie?”

  “I’ve been ready, baby, I’m on the edge,” she cried out.

  “Ahh. . .” Mr. Marcotti, gasped, and the bed creaking was now one solid noise.

  “Unnnarrghhh” his voice growled as if in pain. Mom’s moans were coming in short, rapid succession.

  “That’s it, that’s it, oh God, oh God, yes!”

  I covered my ears and ran back to my room. I remembered I had wet the bed that night. Mom had spanked me for it the next morning.

  After that night, I would still see Mr. and Mrs. Marcotti around the neighborhood. In fact, Mrs. Marcotti had complimented my mom on her new leather coat, with matching boots.

  “Maggie,” she had called out as Mom and I were on our way out of the Piggly Wiggly one evening, “I love your coat. Did you get that at Macy’s?”

  “Thanks, Patty,” Mom had replied, smiling; Mr. Marcotti had joined us from the parking lot.

  “Actually, I’m not sure where it came from. It was a gift from a friend.”

  “Wow, some friend I guess. That color is perfect on you. You know, I saw one very similar to that at Macy’s in Louisville last month. I begged Herb to get it for me, but noooo, he said, ‘that’s too extravagant Patty’,” mimicking her husband’s voice.

  “Remember, Herb? Remember when I practically begged you for that leather coat?”

  “Vaguely,” Herb had replied, uncomfortably fidgeting with his collar.

  “Well, Maggie, I envy you,” Patty had sighed, lightly rubbing her finger on the sleeve of Mom’s coat. “It must be nice to have someone who isn’t shy about shooting his wad for something
like this.” Mom and Herb had exchanged quick glances.

  “Well, c’mon Herb,” Patty instructed, “Let’s grab a cart and get in there. Nice seeing you Maggie, you too, honey,” she smiled at me.

  “Take care, Patty, Herb,” Mom had replied, hurrying me on to where the car was parked.

  I had nearly convinced myself that I had dreamt the whole thing about that night with my mom and Mr. Marcotti, until that day we ran into them and the subject of the leather coat came up. I knew then where Mom had gotten that leather coat. After that, I didn’t hang around with Jenny Marcotti. About a year later, the Marcotti’s moved out of town. It didn’t seem to bother Mom one way or the other.

  I rinsed the shampoo out of my hair, squeezing the excess water out of it. What in the hell had made me think about Jenny Marcotti’s dad and my mom?

  I rinsed my hair again, letting the cold water wash away the awful memory that occasionally invaded my conscious. I knew there were others. I had no clue if they would surface.

  I climbed out of the tub and grabbed two towels. I put my hair in one and wrapped it turban style on my head. I dried myself with the other one as I fantasized about Trey. He kept popping into my mind since our meeting that afternoon.

  I heard a knock at my screen door.

  (Sweet Jesus, what now?)

  I grabbed the robe that hung on my bathroom door and shrugged it on, tying the belt around my waist. I padded through the bedroom and saw Clint standing at the front door with his boyish grin,

  “Hey, sorry,” he said apologetically, “Didn’t mean to roust you out of the shower.”

  “No worries,” I responded, smiling. “What’s up?”

  Clint turned momentarily shy then quickly shrugged it off.

  “Just wondered if you are going down and drink some beer with us at Luke’s? I mean if you feel like going . . . we can walk down together, I mean - that is if you really want to go."