It is my firm belief that long-held and slow to be fulfilled desires are a painful joy that far too many modern men and women fail to appreciate. Pleasure denied is pleasure heightened and prolonged. Instantaneous gratification may temporarily satiate the body and the ego but it does little for the mind and the soul.
Desire is most paramount when it is tended, cultivated, nourished, and permitted to slowly and painstakingly grow until an engorged and ripened bounty can be blissfully harvested. The wait is maddening, often producing nearly unbearable physical and psychological torture. A quick and easy release beckons and seemingly offers an enchanting solution. This is a fool's agreement though, trading the possibility of near rapture for a fleeting moment of fun. It is the exchange of one's birthright for the scantest of sexual morsels.
During the week following our sixth floor encounter I could scarcely think of anything other than my new acquaintance. Thoughts of her body freely roamed my mind and there were seemingly no barriers that I could erect to prevent her from commanding both my waking and sleeping mental self. I obsessively remembered the feel of her skin and the smell of her hair. The sounds of her quickened breath and soft moans still filled my ears as I tried but failed to focus on other things.
I'm thankful I didn't ask her name or get her phone number because a quick text or a short voice mail message would ruin the entire affair. It would introduce reality into a world of fantasy. At this moment she and I are tabulae rasae, blank slates. I am everything that she needs me to be and she serves the same function in return. Our minds fill in unknown details and concoct back stories that create something unique, a blend of fantasy and reality that is almost artistic in its scope and execution.
I pine for and fixate on the dark haired beauty throughout the week, my mind and body pumped and primed. I go through the motions, working, attending meetings, seeing friends, reading, writing, and doing everything I would during an average week. I lack focus though, and must consistently remind myself not to become lost in her. I carry her panties in my pocket to work each day and place them in my top desk drawer. When I am alone I rub my hand against the soft fabric and sometimes hold them to my nose, so that I can smell what remains of her. At home I rub them against my cock enjoying the subtle eroticness of the action.
When Tuesday finally arrives I can think of little else besides her; my cock rigid throughout the day as I remember our library encounter. As 11pm at last comes I force myself to slowly walk the stairs to the sixth floor. Fluorescent lights blink and flicker and the building is so quiet that my footfalls echo throughout the annex.
I wonder if she hears me coming as I walk toward the scene of our first meeting as I pass rows of stacks filled with leather bond classics. Normally, I would stop and browse but tonight there is nothing further from my mind.
Finally, I turn down the proper row and she is there, leaning against the shelving while pretending to read a paperback copy of Catcher in the Rye. I know that she heard me coming and is not really concentrating on the book, but I allow her this small contrivance. Her dignity thus remains intact when I "startle" her by scraping the toe of my shoe against the tile floor creating an audible squeal.
She looks up from her book, trying hard to mask any emotion. Her deep brown eyes expose her excitement though; her dark dilated pupils oxymoronically illuminating the heightened state that she wishes to keep secret. He face remains an emotionless facade but the stale library air is filled with tension and longing.
I try to remain calm and collected but I want nothing more than to fuck her. She is so stunning that it almost physically pains me. I search her face and body for a flaw to latch upon. Something to which I can anchor myself so that I am not left adrift as the waves of longing and desire overtake me. I find nothing except smooth alabaster skin, raven hair, and endless beauty. I unabashedly stare, losing myself in the moment and in her.
She bites her bottom lip out of uncertainty and nervousness and the visual of her square teeth against her pink lips sobers me from my sensual intoxication. Called to action, I walk the three scant steps and kiss her. My right hand holding her neck as my left hand roams her breasts.
I've spent a week building her up in my mind, my version of her is more fiction than reality and the illusion threatens to overpower us both. Her mouth accepts my invading tongue as my hand rubs her nipple through her tight shirt and bra. She tastes of arousal, restlessness, and a hint of spearmint gum. My tongue runs along her sharp teeth and pulls back just in time as she roughly bites my bottom lip, drawing blood. A coppery taste fills my mouth and only enhances my already overwhelming excitement.
I push her backwards and press her against the bookshelves, using my body to wedge her against the stacks. I hold her arms immobile as I kiss her again. Her teeth purposely nipping at my punctured lip. Only her mouth engages me as I prevent her from touching me with her hands. I suck her tongue into my mouth as she struggles to no avail to free her arms and hands.
I kiss down her throat and neck, grazing my teeth against her smooth skin. She smells of lilac and tastes of sweat and soap. I lick, kiss, and softly bite the side of her inviting neck. Her breathing intensifies and she grudgingly starts to vocalize short, harsh, guttural sounds that sustain my efforts.
I slowly snake my tongue along the ridges of her ear, feeling her body quake. I take her soft earlobe into my moth and methodically suck it, causing her to audibly sigh and whimper. My hands free her arms knowing that the need to struggle has left her.
I lick up her lobe again and softly whisper directly into her ear. My hot breath against her delicate skin.
"You're so sexy. I love the way your skin feels on my lips," I vocalize, needing to tell her how beautiful she is.
I rub and fondle her breasts through her shirt and bra as I kiss down to the side of her pale neck. Soon my hands are under her top and I trace the outline of her nipples through her undergarment. Unhooking her bra from the back, I free her breasts from captivity and let my fingers travel unhampered across her mounds.
My fingers rub and stroke her hard nipples, slowly circling her areolas and then softly pulling and pinching them. She squeals as I do this and hastily turns her face in embarrassment at the way she reacted.
I lift her shirt and watch as my hands continue to slide up her body, across her stomach, and under her breasts. Her body is beautiful, a pale wonderland of possibilities and potentialities. It is a corporeal Oz, a land which beckons me to explore its topography and geography.
I feel her buxomness and the weight of her breasts in my hands as I cup her bosom and continue to stroke and pull her nipples.
The sounds of her heavy breathing fill the stacks as I lower my mouth to kiss and lick her breasts, lapping my tongue flatly against her hard nipples.
