Page 13 of British Daddy to Go
5
Maggie
Of course, my parents are waiting for me when I get home from work. It would have been far too much to ask for them to be at the dry cleaner or out to dinner instead of waiting for me by the door.
“So!” they practically yell when I walk through the door of our seventh floor apartment. “How was your first day?”
“It was good,” I mumble. My avoidance of their question does nothing to stop their prying.
My mother blocks me from retreating to my room. “Tell us about your day!”
“It was pretty boring,” I tell her. It’s sort of the truth. “I got a tour of the whole store, and then I shadowed the managing tailor for a bit.”
“What an eventful first day!” Dad exclaims. If only he knew just how eventful my first day really was. “Do you like the job?”
I shrug. “It’s interesting. I like the work, for sure. I got to sew a few things today. It’s nice being behind a sewing machine.”
My mother claps her hands together excitedly, reminding me of Roger. The man had ruined the greatness happening in the dressing room! If he hadn’t shown up, how far would I have gone with Sean? I’m not sure, but it would have been pretty far. “That’s just wonderful, Maggie! I am so proud of you for getting your own job.”
Dad puts his arm around Mom’s shoulders. “I am, too, Maggie. You’re spreading your wings.”
“Thanks, Mom and Dad,” I say. I pull them both into a hug. “Thank you for letting me work at the store instead of the dry cleaners.”
“You’re welcome, sweetheart. Just know that you’re welcome to come back if the work gets to be too much.”
“Thanks. I’m going to go to my room for a bit. My first day made me pretty tired.”
Mom flattens my hair and cups my chin, studying my face. “They’re not running you too hard, are they? I can call your boss…”
Absolutely not. Twenty-five-year-old women do not have their mothers calling their bosses to complain about workloads. “I’m fine, Mom. It was my first day. I didn’t even have that much work to do. I just didn’t sleep much last night because I was so excited.”
“Okay, then. We’ll call you when dinner is ready.”
I kiss my parents’ cheeks and push past them up the stairs. My room is at the end of the upstairs hallway, as far from my parents’ bedroom as I can get in our three-bedroom apartment. Their room is downstairs to the right of our front door, just off the kitchen. To the left of the door is our mediocre living room, containing just a single couch and a TV almost as old as I am. The space is plenty big enough for just the three of us, but it can feel stuffy at times. At least I can escape upstairs, where I have my own bathroom, when I need time to myself. Unfortunately, my father keeps an office on the second floor across from my room. He doesn’t use it often, but I feel less free when he’s upstairs with me.
Once I’ve locked myself inside my room, I can breathe freely. My cheeks are flaming red. Mom and Dad probably assumed the color was from the twelve blocks I had to walk to get home from work. It’s better they think that than know the real reason.
My parents would be appalled to find out what I did in the dressing room at work today.I’mappalled just thinking about it! How could I have given in to my desire like that? I don’t know anything about Sean, yet his lips have touched me in places no man – no person! – has ever touched me before.
I feel a tingling in my personal area as I remember how it felt when Sean had kissed my lips, then my neck, and then my… other parts. My hand sneaks beneath my skirt and touches the sensitive skin. My entire body reacts to the stimulation.
I can’t do this. How many times have my parents told me that touching myself there is wrong?
Our church would shun me if they knew I’d sinned the way I did today. Is there a penance for allowing a man to touch you before marriage? There’s no way I can find out without giving myself away. Well, that might not be true.
My parents didn’t want me to have a computer until I convinced them it could be educational. Then they’d caved and bought me one for my eighteenth birthday. I’ve had the same dinosaur since. It’s excruciatingly slow, but it works well enough. It doesn’t help that Mom and Dad pay for the slowest internet in existence, even though they can afford something faster. When I broached the subject a few years ago, they said, “We don’t always need to live life fast, Maggie. Perhaps we should cancel the internet altogether.” That made me stop asking.
I power up the ancient laptop and open a search engine. Millions of results come up when I ask Google if there is redemption for girls who have strayed.
After a few articles, I feel both better and worse. The consensus seems to be that it’s my body and I can do with it whatever I please. The old custom that women have to wait until marriage to enjoy sex are outdated and sexist. I don’t need to apologize for experiencing something beautiful.
But there are still many, many other articles about how I’m a disgusting, damaged woman now who should be placed in the care of the church. I choose to believe the ones that say I’m worthy of a social life over the ones sentencing me to a religious prison.
No matter what the internet says, my parents would agree with the naysayers. I’m sure their Bible study group would, too. The group is here every Wednesday night, talking about passages in the “Old Book.” While my parents allow me to miss these meetings, it is expected that I attend church with them every weekend.
Knowing that I have to keep what happened a secret makes me feel… naughtier. This is so wrong! I should hate myself right now, not feel like I could do it all over again this second.
I toss my laptop aside and allow my fingers to brush my throbbing pussy once more. My panties are soaking wet, and there isn’t a man in sight! What does this mean?