The docks were silent for the weekend. That meant I had two days free from work. When the alarm sounded at five yesterday, I leaned over Maggie and murmured my invitation for a day out together. Even though I was half asleep, the pleasure in her smile was unmistakable and uplifting.
So, there we were on Saturday mid-morning, standing on the platform waiting for the train to carry us to Liverpool. Her olive-green dress was hardly fashionable, but it did flatter her bosoms and hips to perfection. And it had a long row of buttons down the front, ready for my fingers to enjoy finding their way inside.
We didn’t have long to wait for a train, and then as it accelerated into the tunnel, I turned and asked, “You said Auntie wants you to have a proper job. What do you want to do?”
She paused, collecting her thoughts. “After I left school, I went to the tech for a year for a business and secretarial diploma. Since then, I’ve been temping. It pays better, but I don’t like it so much now ‘cus I’m always the outsider, never part of the team. I’ve started applying for full-time jobs but haven’t even had an interview yet.”
I felt sad for her and tried to lighten the moment: “Yeah, getting started’s horrible.” But she clearly did not want to dwell on it, so for the remainder of the journey, we went back to safer ground.
In a few minutes, we rattled into James Street and climbed back to street level. I looked towards Pierhead and the distant grey smudge of Birkenhead across the river. Maggie, though, had her own ideas, and her gentle tug took me in the opposite direction. As we walked into Lord Street, the buildings changed from commercial offices to shops, and then Maggie started to dawdle, peering at fashion displays far beyond her means.
At Marks and Spencer, she pulled me inside. We wandered past a parade of clothes, jewellery, shoes and perfumes – pausing whenever something caught her attention. Eventually, we slipped out of a side entrance to a narrow street flanked by small shops of every description. In and out of stores we went, with Maggie mentally spending a king's ransom along the way.
I had a destination in mind but had become hopelessly lost. Luckily, her meandering actually led us there, and I was mightily relieved when we passed through the grand entrance to Lewis's mighty store.
All morning, I had been waiting for a chance to treat her, and it was in the ladies’ fashion section that the moment came. She found a dress, a very fashionable white number with yellow and brown geometric patterns – and she was obviously quite smitten with it.
I touched her shoulder. “Why don’t you try it on, love?”
She looked stricken. “It’s four guineas; I don’t have it.”
I squeezed her shoulder gently. “Let me buy it.” Utterly mad I was, a week’s wage blown – but I was head over heels for her.
Maggie’s chin dropped, her mouth open in a soundless "Oh" before she leaned in and her lips brushed my cheek, her warm breath soft on my skin.
“Thank you, love,” she whispered. “I’ll try the large size first. Coming?”
She lifted one off the rack and led me to the changing cubicles. Inside, I sat on the little stool as she closed the door.
Her handbag dropped onto my lap, accompanied by a garbled, “Here, hold this.” In a trice, she unbuttoned herself and lifted the dress over her head. I couldn’t help myself and reached out to stroke her bare midriff. Then, as the garment fluttered to the floor, I stood and pulled her into me, hands around her waist, feeling her full bra pressing into my chest.
With her arms wrapped around my neck, I pushed Maggie back against the wall mirror, grinding my hips on her body as our tongues met in a frantic dance of desire.
The kiss went on far longer than I’d meant it to. For a moment, I was ready to take her there and then, but when our lips finally parted, she drew a shaky breath and whispered, “No, Ken… not here.”
She was right, of course. I sank back onto the stool and watched her turn before the mirror in the new dress, the fabric catching the light as she twirled. She looked like someone who had stepped out of a magazine – confident and radiant. Wanting to prolong her delight, I said, “You look incredible. Keep it on. Put the old one in the store bag.”
She gave a soft smile and slipped her hand into mine as we headed back to the till. Then came the whirlwind: white lingerie, white pixie boots, a white leather shoulder bag. Each department, each counter, another signature from my chequebook – days of work traded for the smile on her face.
I kept glancing at my watch constantly, checking the time I had booked a table at the restaurant. Eventually, I had to steer her away from the perfumery counter and confess. “Come on,” I said. “We’ve got to go. I’ve booked us a table.”
Maggie stared at me. “Here?”
“Yes, love. Fifth floor.”
“It’s so expensive… You shouldn’t.”
She followed me into the lift, her new clothes giving her an air of modernity; my own liver bird. The uniformed attendant slid the steel shutter closed at each floor with a clang. At the restaurant entrance, a young woman in a smart suit checked my name and led us to our table.
We sat on adjacent seats, studying the menu. Maggie frowned, then leaned close and whispered, “What are these? It’s all in another language.”
I hadn’t thought about that. I’d grown up eating out; she’d grown up counting pennies. Fine dining wasn’t part of her world. So I chose for her, hoping I’d guessed well.
She loved it, every dish, every flavour. As we ate, she relaxed, and I touched my knee against her thigh, constantly shifting it left and right. Between courses, I let my hand wander beneath the tablecloth, stroking her bare leg, watching her eyes brighten with desire.
Her response was to widen the gap between her legs, shifting to make my touch easier. Not one of the respectable middle-class men and women around us seemed to notice our play; the room just continued to hum with quiet conversation, clinking silverware, and soft music.
The little signs of arousal were there, her glazed eyes, flushed face and fast breathing. By the time we left, my pulse was racing as much as hers.
The journey back was a blur – out of the store and onto the train, the two of us wrapped up in each other, snogging outrageously and oblivious to the carriage around us.
From the station, we almost ran to her house, laughing breathlessly as we climbed the stairs. At the landing, she paused, half turned, her hand still holding mine. Then she drew me gently toward her bedroom.
Her room felt cramped; the small double bed covered most of the floor space. A chest of drawers stood facing the head end, and a single wardrobe squeezed into the gap on the other side of the chimney breast. The gas fire was cold and lifeless, the bare floorboards scuffed from years of use.
A small window looked straight onto the brick wall of the neighbouring house, so close it felt as if you could reach out and touch it. On the chest lay a few personal treasures – a hairbrush, a hand mirror, a tatty lamp and the alarm clock I recognised from our night together in the parlour – a few small touches of intimacy.
What hit me hardest was the decay: the wallpaper lifting at the seams, the ceiling stained and crazed with age, the decor carrying an air of neglect. It was a stark contrast to my own warm, comfortable bedroom at home – another reminder of how far apart our worlds really were.
Maggie pulled me onto her bed. Lumpy and uneven, I didn’t care as I leaned over her and planted my lips on hers. Her hand pulled mine down to the hem of her skirt, then drew my fingers up her thigh, then pressed down, pushing my palm against her mound. Her whisper carried urgency. “Make me come, Ken. I need it now.”
The awful truth was I didn’t know how, and my hesitation showed it. “Have you ever used your finger to make a girl come, love?”
I mumbled, the kind of negative sound one makes when embarrassed.
“Put your hand inside my knickers, where you are now, then slide down.”
My fingers slid underneath the thin cotton to find her pubes, then over and down between her legs. “You’re very wet,” I told her.
Maggie giggled as she spoke. “Open my lips. Find your way inside. Feel around.”
I used my fingers to find the way and pressed, and then suddenly two went inside her. “That’s nice. Now gather my juice and spread it around outside.”
Her hips started to flex a little. I was still unsure exactly what I had to do, but her next instructions were clear: “Move up a bit, just one finger in the middle… yes, just there…. My clit, it’s like a little hard rod… rub your finger around on the bottom bit… Yes, nice, keep going… Push on it… go faster…. Yes, yes…”
The stream of advice tailed off as my finger sped around faster and harder, her breaths came in short bursts, and her hips swayed around, flexing and rolling. I was mesmerised. Nothing had prepared me for this display.
Her ending was spectacular; her thighs had clamped so tight that neither my hand nor finger could move a millimetre. She rolled side to side violently, then her body scrunched into the foetal position, shaking and jerking. But it was her face I watched closely – eyes screwed shut, nostrils flared, and mouth wide open in a silent scream.
Gradually, the shocks coursing through her body reduced, and her eyes opened, and somehow, through her now gasping breaths, the words came: "Oh, God, thank you. That were boss, proper nice.”
Her arms wrapped around me and pulled our lips together, and I felt the thrill of an achievement, something special in my life. Then I felt her hand on my trousers, pressing and rubbing the bulge straining to be released.
I rolled off the bed and stripped my clothes, item by item, which fell to the floor while I watched her do the same. She pulled her new dress off, followed by her bra and knickers, then lay back on the bed, legs apart, fingers rubbing the same place I had. Her gaze fixed on my loins and the shaft that was about to pierce her body.
An arm snaked out and grasped it. “I want to suck him,” and I shuffled closer until she lifted herself on an elbow and took me in her mouth.
As soon as her tongue touched me, I shuddered; an exquisite, indescribable feeling ran through my body, but after our previous sessions, I had learnt to understand my body and pleaded, “Maggie, I won’t last if you do that.”
She withdrew, locked onto my eyes, and, in a little girl’s voice, said, “Please, Ken, make love to me.”
Maggie's fingers tightened around my wrist, pulling me down onto the rumpled sheets. "Now," she gasped, guiding me with her hips.
My body responded instinctively, pressing forward until she let out a soft, shuddering moan. Her nails dug into my shoulders as we moved together, breathing in sync.
"God, Ken," she murmured, "you feel..." The rest dissolved into a gasp as I shifted my weight, deepening the angle.
Her thighs tensed around my hips, pulling me closer, her body responding with an urgency that matched mine. The scent of her skin filled my nostrils as I pressed my fingers and thumbs into her collarbone.
"Harder", she breathed – and I obliged, driving into her with a rhythm that made her gasp, her head tilting back, exposing the delicate skin of her neck.
Her moans grew louder and uncontrolled, filling the small bedroom, mingling with the slap of skin on skin.
"Yes… just like that…" Her words broke off as her hips jerked, and deep in my loins, I felt the stirring of a rising pleasure.
Her legs locked around my waist, heels dug into the small of my back as she arched off the bed with a ragged cry, her climax shuddering through her in waves that threatened to drag me over the edge with her.
Her fingers pulled my mouth to hers in a breathless kiss, her tongue flapping around, unrestrained and full of want. The bed groaned beneath us, sheets damp and tangled.
"Don't stop," she pleaded, her hips still rolling against mine, chasing the aftershocks. I felt my control fraying, the pressure building, my completion inevitable. Her hands slid down to grip my cheeks, urging me deeper, faster.
"Fuck…" she moaned. “You’re so close: I want to feel it."
The room blurred, my hips jerked as my pleasure crested, sharp and blinding, and I yelled, “Maggie,” as I shot into her with a shuddering spasm, my muscles locked and trembling.
I collapsed onto her, the weight of our bodies pressing damp skin together. Her fingers traced circles on my back, her chest rising and falling rapidly against me.
"Mary, mother of Christ," she murmured. “I told you the first time you would get it right – and you have.”
I chuckled weakly and rolled onto my side, pulling her with me – her leg hooked over my hip, keeping me close even as I softened inside her.
I licked a drop of sweat from the tip of her nose, then kissed the same spot, murmuring sweet nothings. “Maggie, you are beautiful – the most beautiful girl in Birkenhead, maybe the world.”
She giggled and smothered my face in little kissed pecks. “Don’t be daft… go ‘way with you.” And her cheeks blushed deep crimson.
“But you are.” And I meant it, lying there in post-orgasmic bliss, still inside her.
She used her muscles to give me a gentle squeeze, and I slipped out to the space between her thighs. We drifted in and out of fitful sleep, locked together by entwined limbs, kissing, smooching and stroking with occasional bursts of lovers’ talk.
Daylight had faded when she rolled away and stood up, and I asked her, “I need a pee. Where’s the loo?”
“Out back, in t’ yard,” she replied, then bent over and pulled a large ceramic pot from under the bed, “but you can use this.”
So I knelt by the bed and urinated in front of her. Then she sat on it and relieved herself before pushing the pot back beneath the bed. It wasn’t that unusual to have a chamber pot in the sixties, but something struck me – our intimacy had evolved into something deeper than sex.
I climbed back on the bed, but this time I got under the sheet and propped myself up with pillows behind me, then patted the other side, inviting her back. She knelt there and leaned in to kiss me. I lifted my hand and felt a hanging breast, gently stroking her flesh and nipple.
Maggie sat upright and held my hand with her palm flat against her breast, grinning and content. “How about a sarny and a cuppa, love,” she offered. I nodded my agreement, then watched her naked body undulate around the room before disappearing. I closed my eyes, listening to the patter of her feet on the stairs.
She came back holding a tray with two mugs of tea and a plate stacked with jam sandwiches. She set the tray down on the chest before handing a mug to me and sliding under the bedding. Just like an old married couple, I thought, having lost count of the times I had seen my parents do the same.
After our little meal, I laid my arm across her shoulders and pulled her close. Maggie’s head rested in the crook of my shoulder, and I pressed my face into her hair, breathing in her aroma.
“Can I stay overnight, please? I don’t need to go back to the ship. Will that be alright with Aunty?”
She lifted her arm and grasped the hand resting on her shoulder. “Yes, Ken, I want that. But she’s not my auntie; Hilda is my half-sister.”
My mouth dropped open, uttering inaudible words.
“Tomorrow, love. I’ll tell you tomorrow.
