Maybe I was old fashioned or I was just enjoying them while I could. Actual, physical, libraries were on their way to the dust-bin of history.
I had been here a hundred times, but I still found myself admiring the
turn-of-the-century craftsmanship, the spiral staircases, the granite masonry,
the enormous oak shelves reaching up to the vaulted ceilings with their
specialized ladders that slid along a track.
I was looking for Gore Vidal’s last publication before his death. I knew it
would be here. Everything was here. I started towards the section of the
building I knew it would be.
To get there, I had to walk through a very large area devoted to much more
popular writers set apart from Dewy for convenience sake: Stephen King, Gillian
Flynn, Dan Brown et al.
It was busy, so I had to navigate a medium-sized group of readers. I’m not
comfortable in a crowd of strangers, so I made my way through as quickly as I
could, eager to get to the much more desolate area beyond. As I was about to
turn a corner and move past them, I almost missed her.
Almost.
Gorgeous dark hair, big brown eyes, a blouse with trousers, peep toe heels
and black-rimmed glasses. It flashed in my peripheral vision.
It was her. She was here.
Trying to seem like my attention had been drawn by the Stephen King novels,
I slowed my pace just before the anticipated turn and took a spot very near to
her.
Flipping through the forward of ‘Delores Claiborne’, I tried to seem
nonchalant. I had seen this raven-haired fascination several times. Always alone.
Never wearing a false smile or exhibiting any forced social pleasantry. A woman
that does not care about making sure other people feel comfortable around her
is incredibly sexy to me.
Needles to say, she had left an impression. She always appeared to savor
this moment to herself. Perhaps she was a single mother making the most of the
window of time she had between work and parenthood. More likely, that was
wishful thinking on my part and she was quite happily married.
But at this moment, I didn’t care if she was married or not. All I wanted
was to get close enough to get an impression of her scent; her perfume, her
shampoo… laundry detergent, something.
She had slid down her glasses, peaking over them as she scanned the back of
Dan Brown’s ‘Origin’. There was no ring anywhere on her delicate fingers. I
felt slightly less inappropriate about what I was doing. I reached one arm
behind her to put ‘Delores Claiborne’ back on the shelf and pull away King’s
‘11.22.63′. In the process, my face was just near enough to smell…
…coconut.
Briefly, a sly grin crossed my face as I leaned back into place, novel in
hand. She had noticed me by now. She didn’t say it, but her expression told me
that at the very least she remembered my face. But then her eyes softened… .and
she smiled.
The woman that doesn’t care if you think she should smile flashed me not
only a smile, but a sexy grin that only women seem to know how to do. I
returned her look with one of my own. Not a wink or a smirk, but a quick scan
downward that then traveled back up.
We were flirting. I felt my pulse racing as I pretended to go back to caring
about what I was reading. She was doing the same. Holding this brick of a book
in my left hand, I let my right arm dangle. My hand was now right next to hers.
With only the slightest movement, my fingers could be touching hers.
What was I doing? “You’re going to get yourself in a lot of trouble.”
Something inside me pushed that thought away as my pinky, almost imperceptible,
brushed against hers. Still feigning interest in this work of Dan Brown, I felt
hers do the same. However, when she slid her ring finger between my middle and
index, I felt the swipe of a manicured nail on my palm…
…and then tingling everywhere else.
I interlaced my fingers with hers. I could feel her pulse on my skin. Why
was this happening? What were we doing? I didn’t know her name and she
didn’t know mine. By any measure, we were strangers.
This wasn’t simply holding hands, however; it was well beyond that now.
Caressing, fondling… I could feel the veins and arteries under her skin. The
tips of her fingers explored the ridges of my knuckles.
There was an eroticism that was making my heart sing and my skin tremble. I
needed more. More than touch… taste. That word was firmly planted
in my mind. Taste. I sat down the Stephen King and took the Dan Brown
from her, putting them both away.
Pulling her hand with mine, I began walking towards my original destination.
She eagerly followed my lead without a word, her soft feminine fingers
tightening around mine. The coconut scent had intensified slightly, telling me
her body temperature had increased. I was literally smelling her
attraction to me. Outwardly, I behaved as casually as I could, but internally I
was possessed by a demon, a beast.
The heavy footfalls of our dress-shoes bounced off the giant oak bookshelves
and clanged against the stone walls as I led her further and further into the
traditional and much larger (and, at this time of day, deserted) area of the
library.
Abruptly, I steered us between a row of bookcases. Daylight streamed in from
the floor-to-ceiling oval windows. We were not well hidden at all, but my
single-minded focus on tasting her was now a compulsion. There was no turning
back.
With one hand on her hip and the other around her throat, I pressed her
against one of the bookcases. I locked in on her gorgeous brown eyes and
reached between her legs. Over her business slacks, I forcefully clenched my hand
like a vice.
Quickly, I unzipped her trousers and immediately slipped two fingers inside
her. Her eyes were burning a hole through me as I brought my hand close to my
lips. I played with her wetness, rubbing it on my thumb.
As I finally tasted her on my fingers, she swiped her thumb against
mine and tasted herself. Our eyes never closed once during this intimate
communication…
…we didn’t even blink.
That voice, a demon bellowing somewhere in the darkness, snarled inside me.
My hand went back around her throat as she was pinned hardagainst the
bookcase again. I shoved my index and middle fingers back inside her. My thumb
miming figure-8s on her clit.
Momentarily, I remembered where we were and what the consequences could be.
But, again, I brushed that very reasonable concern out of my mind. We were past
reason. Whatever the connection was between us, that bridge had been crossed
and set on fire.
She wasn’t leaving this library without her cum on my fingers. I reached up
and removed her glasses. Pacing them in my jacket pocket, my hand instantly
returned to her diaphanous neck. I watched her perfect brown eyes expressing a
desire I can’t truly explain. She was giving herself to me. Completely.
I could feel her texture changing. She was already close. As the sound of
the second hand on the library clock above the mammoth oval window ticked by, I
tightened my grip. With the fingers on my other hand squeezing, fucking,
tracing the number eight more and more doggedly, I unintentionally broke the
unspoken rules of our little game of silence and growled:
“Mine.”
It startled even me. However, it wasn’t the time to dwell on how I felt like
I’d just spoken-in-tongues…
Feeling her entire pelvic floor quivering around my fingers, she buried her
head into my shoulder and let out a barely audible trill that a woman only
makes when she cums.
The satisfaction this gave me was beyond words. As she felt the earthquake
rolling from her body, electricity flowing out her fingers and toes, we feasted
together like feral animals on my fingers. Our lips and tongues intertwined
like vines. Gradually, the beast that overcame me faded away and the compulsion
subsided.
I put one arm around her waist and gingerly motioned her forward, resting
her head on my chest. With two fingers under her chin, I drew her up to look at
me. Taking her glasses out of my pocket, I gently placed them back on her sweet
face.
That beautiful smile…
Behind us, a library visitor was approaching. We had gotten lucky and we
knew it. Quickly, we composed ourselves. She reached into my jacket and
produced my phone. After a series of taps, she handed it back to me. Just
before she walked away, she gave me a little kiss on the cheek.
Looking down, I saw that she had added herself as a contact. Next to her
name was parenthetically ‘yours’. As she made her way down the hall, she
looked over her shoulder and blushed.
Sharp Dressed Dom 