by Maria Williamson
(04/11/07)
We are the only customers in the bookstore. Not the modern brightly lit mega-bookstore. No, this one is small and dark and incredibly crowded with books. There are books stacked to the ceiling and tucked into every available space. The aisles are lined with books in tottering piles, so that it is almost impossible to pass through in some places. The owner is not here today. In his stead is another person, a stranger to us, who sits behind his fortress of a desk, also stacked high with books, absorbed in his reading.
We stroll to the far aisle (for rushing would be impossible) and you take my hand and kiss me. Then we kiss again and you place my hand on the front of your slacks. An unmistakable arousal strains the fabric. I stroke, gently, and then you take my hand away and lead me further into the back of the store. There are tiny rooms there, equally stuffed with books, so that there is scarcely room for two people at once in the one where we finally stop. I am in your arms as we kiss again, listening for the jingle of the doorbell or any other sound that might indicate the clerk is up and about.
But there is nothing except the pounding of my heart, the surging of my pulse, the racing of the blood in my veins. "Get down on your knees," you tell me, and I am there as you unzip those business dress pants and pull out an erection that is anything but staid or solemn. I take your huge lovely cock into my mouth and lavish my tongue in swirls around it, pulling back and then slowly engulfing you again and again. I love the sensation of having you in my mouth. My tongue feels every ridge, every engorged blood vessel, every involuntary spasm.
When I look up I can see you staring at me. You hold my long hair out of the way to better see what I am doing, and your hands are trembling ever so slightly. It's hard to smile back at you when my mouth is so full. Then I can see that you aren't really looking at me any more. You are in that place where all the other senses give way to the tactile. You strain with tension. We both do. And part of the tension is having to keep quiet, stifling the groans that want to escape my throat. Even though there isn't room for anything more to pass between my lips than what is already there. And then you are coming and coming and where I thought there was no more room there is. I swallow and swallow again. When there is nothing left I give you one last kiss and you pull me unsteadily to my feet. You tuck and zip, then hug me for long minutes as we regain our senses.
Then we are emerging into the main room, talking of books, serious and proper. When we reach the door it is raining, not a downpour but a steady soft rain. But you refuse to share my umbrella. Instead you walk away into the rain, smiling.
