I am.
Powerful words, those, and not many people aware that when they speak them they claim to the world -- "I am!" and pronounce vow to whatever follows.
I comprehend them with intimate detail.
And I am here to tell you that I am beautiful. I am witty. I am average. I am crazy. I am neurotic, and some-what young having recently entered my third decade of life. I am a person who's made mistakes and paid the consequences; who's learned from past lessons by tearing apart both sides of the argument.
I believe I am more than a writer, and merely an 'author in waiting.'
I can at least but hope.
I am also a sexy, deviant, fiend. I am a well-learned eroticist with claim to many experiences under my belt in almost all things defining that category; writing, visuals, vocals, experimentations, etc... This is not to say I am an exhibitionist, for I am not. Not really. Only sometimes. Maybe.
I am bored; the interesting men in my life are miles upon miles away, and those close too afraid or intimidated by me to make a move; or making some lame attempt to play me as if I don't understand their game better than they do, and strategize with perhaps a bit more skill.
Some flirt, and it is innocent fun. After all, spoken word games mean nothing but sensual, delicious licks of flattery to those of us having already mastered the art of fanciful expression.
But why am I boring you with this?!
How truly, splendidly awful of me! Yet even now I smile with wicked delight knowing you have been drawn into my delicately woven web.
I know why you are here. Do you?
To be seduced by words -- my verses.
So, for now, I consent myself as your storyteller and you as my audience.
Prepare yourself for desire. I hear I have never failed to supply it to those that devise me appealing, and it is my deepest, darkest yearning that you find a fondness for what follows.
Let's the stories begin, shall we?
Once Upon A Cock...
Urban Fantasies: The Librarian
I feel the spine of the book beneath the pads of my fingertips as I shelve it back in its proper place. My right arm is hooked at my side, weighted by the hefty burden of six more tomes. All of them need to be replaced in their designated residence of repose.
I love libraries. They are one of my absolute favorite places in the whole world, where ever I manage to find my feet. The smell of books and the sounds of whispered calm -- the clack of computer keys; the sometimes rattle of a cell-phone someone had forgotten to silence, just do something for me. Soothe me. Relax me.
So when I noticed one no more than a block from my new apartment I decided to volunteer. Of course they let me. Who turned down free help in a place this size?
The library itself is one of the bigger ones in the community, sporting three levels of flooring to house the massive amount of books that have accumulated over the past couple of centuries.
And these last five -- I'd just settled another in its rightful spot -- I know belong on the bottom floor. I never go to the lowest floor -- not in the past three months that I've been 'working' here.
One last thing about the basement of the library: It's a Restricted Access area. As in, no children allowed. It's where all the really good novels, magazines, artworks, et cetera are kept, and if I'm being honest with myself I'm more than a little anxious as I make my way across the length of the library to reach the stairs down.
Up until this point I've avoided it.
It was like, I don't know, Forbidden Fruit or something. I'm a good girl. At least, I want to think I'm a good girl; the dozen or so men I've slept with during my budding post-high school years would have a lot to say on the contrary. And not a whit of it would be lies.
I smile at Sam as I walk closer. Sam is the guard that makes sure no one under the age of eighteen sneaks down these steps, the lighting from two side wall-lamps giving ample glow to make for an easy descent.
Sam is also old enough to be my father's father. What little hair he has is grey tufts on his head, and his weathered flesh hangs about his sagging face in a wrinkled smile that curls the lines etched into the corners of his eyes. The rest of his body is just as comfortable beneath the loose uniform he wears.
I know I remind him of his grand-daughter; he'd mentioned it only a million times since he's first seen me and called me her name - Angel.
"You be careful, Miss Angel-Lee," he said as I stroll past.
"Don't worry about me, Sam. I've just got some stuff to put away," my lush lips wear a wide smile, "though I might take a moment to see what's actually down here now I'm going."
He laughed. "You do that, Miss Angel-Lee. You do that."
As I slowly make my way through the thin rows of shelves, I take a moment to familiarize myself with the coding system down here, nestling a few novels back in their snug spots as I pass them. Not much different from above, but condensed. Which made sense -- from the titles I was reading this place was slut-central.
And, okay. Maybe I should have worn panties today instead of going the usual commando. Pretty soon the gentle scent of my natural, slick reaction to this den of adult sin was going to hang around me like my personal cologne.
And, okay. The thought of that is turning me on. Enough to make my nipples peak against my padded silk bra beneath the cotton of my black, picture-less t as I replace the second to last book; that left one to go.
I'm turning the last corner into probably the darkest, most secluded part of the library when I see him and pause before he can notice me.
His hair is a bunch of dark black curls cut in a moderate length around his face and head; his skin a soft, light tan. He's wearing a t much like my own and loose jeans, but not so loose they hang below his ass. From the profile I can tell he isn't bad on the eyes, though I can't pick out the color of his.
