1.
She had stopped trying to study at the library. She was tired of school and her dull classmates. They had no idea about her. They didn't suspect. They would never guess--how could they? Their awkward talk, their dull and limited vocabulary.
She had sampled two of the taller ones last semester: earnest, sweet boys who would one day each make a dull, suburban-minded woman blissfully happy with once-a-week missionary. The best thing she could say about them is that they didn't take too long, and they didn't fight when she kicked them out afterwards.
It was winter now. Literally and figuratively, she thought. The winter of her discontent. So with her backpack and books and laptop she trekked to the local coffee shop. She was halfway through a large cup of bitter black coffee when she had the presence of mind to notice her surroundings. Or, more accurately, notice him.
He must have sat down while she was outlining this last chapter, she hadn't noticed him come in. He was a table away, but she could smell his cologne. The scent reminded her of how men used to look to her when she was sixteen.
His face and his clothes matched his cologne perfectly.
But what really got her attention--what gave her pause and then inspired her to act--was what he was doing. He was sipping from a mug and occasionally turning the pages in a small, paperback novel with a plain cover that had no images, only words.
The Story of O.
Boldness rose inside of her. "I didn't know you could read a book like that in public," she said to the stranger.
He looked up from the book. He looked at her in the eyes and then she saw that his eyes quickly dart to take the rest of her in. He smiled.
"You can," he said, "because most people have no idea what it is about. Only the most discerning."
2.
Her heart was racing. They were walking down the hallway to his apartment, or so that's where he said he was taking her. The books and laptop in her backpack--normally such a heavy, awkward burden--felt light as a feather. Everything was light, it was almost unbearably light, just liked Kundera said it would be.
Their banter at the coffee shop had turned witty. Then it turned into flirting. Then he moved his chair to her table and they sat so close his knee rested against hers under the table while they took turns reading passages from The Story of O to each other in low, conspiratorial whispers. She checked his left hand for a ring, saw none, not even the trace of one. She inhaled the scent of him and she noticed the intimate signs of her own arousal.
"I live two blocks away," he said. "And I make better coffee."
"Prove it," she said.
He opened the lock of the door and said, "Be it ever so humble . . ."
She paused in the hallway, and did not move.
"Don't worry," he said in his smooth baritone. "Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought her back." He put his hand on the small of her back, guiding her into the apartment.
The first thing she noticed was that the apartment smelled like him. Also, it looked like a man's apartment, not like the perennially unmade boy apartments of her grad school life.
He made the coffee while she looked around his living room, reading the spines of his books. She had stopped being nervous. The solidity of the apartment--the hardwood floor, the rug, the furnishings--reassured her need for security. She looked at the pillows on the couch and thought--will he give me one of those to kneel on, or will he put me on my knees right on the rug?
She had no doubt that what he asked her to do, she would do. If he asked her to open her legs for him, she would. She would open them and show him the sweet secret of her pussy. He'd inhale her scent the way she had been enjoying his. She could already imagine the light stubble of his cheek against her inner thighs.
He returned with two coffees. They sat on the couch, making small talk, cradling their cups. After a few minutes she realized why he suggested coffee--because of how warm his hands were when they reached out to touch her. First, on the exposed skin of her arms. Then, lightly on her neck. Then, the side of her face. He told her she was pretty, he gave her some specific compliments that disarmed her, and before she could reply they were kissing. Rather: he was kissing her, slowly and then more insistently and she yielded into him, into her own lust, into the hard arousal that she could feel he had for her.
He took the coffee cup out of her hands and set it down on an end table. His arms enveloped her. He did not ask permission but he did not rush, either. He explored her form while they kissed.
"Show me how lovely you are," he said to her after awhile. "Stand up and let me see what you look like with less clothes."
"Yes, sir," she said.
She rose and stood in the middle of his living room. "First the sweater," he said.
He sat on the couch, watching her. She was acutely aware that she was the very center of his attention, now. She could feel the raw energy of his lust for her. She undressed in response to his directions--they were not orders, but they were not requests. She saw the bulge of his arousal, but his tone was calm and unhurried. He was savoring her. Savoring the perfections of her body and all of her flaws alike.
