(This story was inspired by "Land Down Under", a story about sex on an airplane. I thought of the premise while driving home from work, but then, while perusing the database, I was appalled at the number of times libraries come up! Anyway, to distinguish it a bit, I decided to take a playful approach with this one, with lots of hyperbole and metaphor. It was a lot of fun to write. I hope you enjoy it!)
Who was Dewey, actually? And just what driving need had compelled him to reduce every single subject in the sum total of human knowledge to sets of long, difficult to remember streams of numbers? What if the original Dewey had, chuckling madly to himself the whole time, drawn up the plans for The Decimal System as one great big practical joke that would baffle students like myself posthumously for generation after generation?
The librarians were all in on the joke, I was certain. You'd walk up to one of them and ask where you could find a book. They'd smile good-naturedly, tell you that the book you were looking for was probably in 643 point something or other. They they'd watch you walk away, adrift in a sea of confusion, pointing and snickering at your back the whole time. That's why you see so many older librarians: once they told you The Secret, you were in for life.
And so I stand there, staring at the row of books which Dewey himself had moments before assured me will contain the literature I require, when a flash of movement catches my eye. Graceful is the word that springs to mind as I look over. No gymnast was ever so perfectly balanced in the simple act of standing in place, no dancer so lithe and fluid in the motion of turning a page. She is a goddess forever beyond reach, for whom any man could spend an eternity seeking, asking only for the chance of but one glimpse more of her perfect eyes the color of innocent laughter, and die happy knowing that his life was lived to its fullest. She is beauty itself, in high heels and a miniskirt.
I try not to stare--look too long at anything, and it inevitably becomes a stare--but her magic has captured me. One thoughtful pursing of the lips, and I am spellbound. I want to laugh, I want to run out and paint a masterpiece, I want time to stop and preserve this moment frozen in glimmering crystal clarity. But the moment passes, leaving me helpless as she turns her head to meet my gaze. I think to speak, but there are no words. They've fluttered away like so many frightened pidgeons. Perhaps they'll return later, or maybe they'll seek out a less troubled place in which to roost. In either case, I do not miss them, they would be a poor offering to give in exchange for her tiny knowing smile in which I bask. She turns to walk away, and my heart cries out its longing to leap after her. But I can only drink her in, savor the precious golden elixir of her scent fading away, bittersweet like a memory of parted lover.
Mechanically, my body moves. I take the book down from the shelf and stare at the title, so very different from the careless string of numbers assigned to it by Dewey's System. But the joke has lost its power over me, now. My thoughts are languid, fleeting, my mind trying to hold her in, to keep its grasp on the glimpse of paradise she has allowed me. My words have again returned, but are mockingly useless to me. They are woefully, squawkingly inadequate to describe the barest hint of that moment in her presence. Then, in an instant of carelessness, the moment slips away from me entirely, leaving me lost and longing. Corpselike, I seat myself at a table and open the book to Chapter 1. I am alone.
A delicate hand touches the table somewhere outside the cardboard boundaries of my book. Surely there could not be another pair of hands in all the world so perfect, could there? Leave it a mystery, my heart urges, fearful of being shattered as this wild, wonderful hope surges within it. But the mind is cynical, and in time uncertainty becomes synonomous with disbelief. I have to look, to preserve my own sanity.
And my heart does shatter, or nearly so, from unrestrained joy pouring forth. My goddess has returned! I open my mouth to babble something, anything, nothing at all, but her finger touches my lips: be quiet. Touches! Silk is rough, coarse next to the feather-light softness of that touch. I myself falling, falling, falling into the depths of oblivion in her eyes, then her mischevious smile creeps into them, and I am lifted up to dance among the stars.
She sets her book down on the table in front of me. She pushes me back from the table and I bring the chair with me, wheels squeeking. My mind is beyond questions. I am hers. She knows it, and she knows that I know it. She sits down, alighting herself on my knees. As she descends, she spreads her skirt so that it drapes down from my thighs. I would gladly be her chair, if that is what she wishes. To touch her, to be touched by her again is a dream I can only hope for, and there she is, a dream come to life. She picks up the book in her right hand.
She looks around, a furtive glance. I wonder what could make her do such a thing. She then glances at me, an unfathomable smile touching her lips, before returning her gaze to the book. She moves. My heart leaps, believing that she is leaving me once more, but she is only changing her position. She turns her back to me and slides herself backwards, bringing the perfect curve of her bottom to rest in my lap. I try to quiet my body's longings, afraid to frighten her away with its ugliness, but I cannot. She gives no outward sign that she is aware of the change, her eyes still focused at the book. Then, she gives an almost imperceptible twisting of her body, the essence of her movement going right through the fabric of my clothes to the steadily growing member beneath. I remember her admonition, her finger pressed to my lips, and do not cry out.
She turns the page of her book, then casually drops her hand down beside her. The fingers splay outward, then curl back in to form to the shape of my thigh. She moves her hand down my leg and back up again in what I can only take to be a caress. The fingers slip behind her, interrupting the contact of our bodies, but working industriously to a purpose. The zzzz of a zipper, drawn down with slow and infinite care, pierces the air in silence. She reaches into the gap she has created, working now at the hole in my briefs. I am not worthy, I want to shout. But I cannot. She has asked me not to speak and I could never act against her wishes.
The touch of her skin on mine is electric as she draws my erect shaft through to the outside. She takes hold of my leg. She is adjusting her seating, lifting herself up and scooching backwards a bit, or so it would appear to a passerby, unaware of what was truly happening. I realize, in a single moment, that she is wearing nothing under her miniskirt. But that realization is completely obliterated by the profound warmth of her being infused into mine, a part of me taken into her and transformed into a glowing light of pure joy. She begins to rock back and forth slowly on my lap, this angel of perfection.
I hear someone approach. She walks past, scans the numbers on the bindings of the books, chews on her lip pensively. Dewey sent her. I could have laughed out loud at the sheer absurdity of it. She has no idea of what is happening right next to her.
My goddess has gone still. She turns another page, holding the book now for me to read as well. Her hand finds mine and guides it under her skirt. She places my hand in a warm, soft, wonderful place, a veritible feast for the sensation of touch. She then moves to place her arm over mine to cover the lump that it makes in the skirt. I begin to move my fingers and she gives the tiniest of nods, affirming.
The poor woman, Dewey's latest victim, still can't find her book.
Suddenly, there is a tightening, a wonderful, wonderful squeezing. It is my goddess. She coughs and shifts herself slightly, moving me out of her by a tiny amount. The squeeze comes again, then she coughs once more, hiding the subtle movement. This time, the squeeze makes my whole body stiffen as her muscles contract around my glans. She favors me with another of her little smiles, letting me know that it was on purpose. She pats my arm, reminding me of a task I am only too happy to carry out.
The woman, Dewey-struck, is nevertheless bound and determined to find her book.My fingers move rhythmically over a tiny button of flesh. My goddess reads her book, squeezes me from deep within herself. Only I can hear the sound of her quiet breath, ragged and wild and burning with passion. She lifts her hand and turns another page.
The other woman finally throws her hands up--I give up!--and walks away.My goddess turns her head towards me, her eyes looking into mine. I can almost feel the things she is feeling, if only, if only. She rocks again, moving with the tempo of my fingers, our two bodies shaping a melody of motion of incredible depth and power. I feel myself slipping into a place that feels unequivocably right, a place that starts and ends with the motion of her body. I see it in her eyes, the moment that her passion builds to the point of overflowing. She has retreated within, has gone to a place of total sensation somewhere deep down. She gives no sound, only a slight parting of her lips, as the takes hold. I feel it from inside her, like the slow fluttering of a butterfly's wings, each time her body reacts. In that moment, the library vanishes and there is only her. Her body, her eyes, her pleasure. I'm rushing, rushing along, drawn by her perhaps, my own body, too, making its crossing. I bury my head against her shoulder to keep from crying out, the wash of delicious release almost too much to contain. It goes on and on and on and on....
It is finally over. She gets up slowly, casually, and returns the book to a wheeled cart. I rush to conceal the evidence of what has happened. We exchange one long look of total understanding and love, two strangers whose souls have touched. Then she turns and walks away.
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