by
Onyxstorm

Surrounded by books, seated in this cafe, harmless music complaining through the distance. Shoulders hunched inevitably over selected readings, personal sips of cappuccino punctuating an otherwise blissful moment of melancholy and not enough sunlight pouring through the cathedral windows of this establishment. Looking into distracted faces and feeling an obvious lack of energy or is it more like the manifestation of a lot of no backbone. Marked with a paramount disdain for those without backbone, I smell them at one hundred paces and dispatch them with immediate kill.

It is always the jacket. So weathered and in charge of flailing moments. I step inside this jacket and master cultures, institutions and women. My motorcycle jacket, leg cuffs fastened arrogantly across the back and between my shoulder blades. An antiqued silver symbol of Comedy and Tragedy is at home on my right front. Then on the left shoulder, that Bram Stroker Dracula pin beckoning blood suckers from every planet. The astute observer will note the red leather gloves entering a side pocket and wonder... Always the jacket. She will find a reason to touch it, be drawn to the leg cuffs with instantly sustainable desire masquerading as curiosity, a reason to enter my domain.

I never look up. My shoulders too are hunched over and reading. Then there is a tea cup sliding effortlessly across the table stopping squarely in front of me. The steam coming off this tea is almost insulting, fogging my glasses and about to readily piss me off. But she is quick and adjusts the direction of the breeze so that the steam wanders now away from me. And in that moment I allow her to sit. Across from me but not ever near to me. She has not earned my ocular response so continue to read I do. I can smell that very new fragrance by Chanel. It's is called 'Allure'. A woman of substance I begin to think under my breath. She is patient but breathing in that way that wreaks of anticipation, not quite racing and not quite halting. I'm really not interested in this tea but the gesture was grand indeed. I'm becoming more aware of this woman who has entered my still peripheral vision with fairly reckless abandon and yet a proclaimed sense of entitlement. There is a strength and a courage which needs not plead for attention, yet those eyes do plead as they dare not challenge my attention to them. It is apparent she seeks my space but dares not to disturb my established trends. I don't want to know her name, I want to take her. There is never a moment of doubting her worthiness to compel this encounter. She approached with deference to my power and a yearning to drink from my ability to soothe everything that ached in her.

I reverse the barely steaming tea to a place directly in front of her. 'Drink'. She obeys knowing not what comes next but proudly unwilling to jeopardize this moment. She has hands that so obviously were drafted by a porcelain artisan. Hands proclaiming a knowledge of special touching abilities. Her cup is empty and waiting...a head nod from me allows her to rest it home in its saucer. That breathing is becoming even more apparent and anticipatory. Something about the ambience in a bookstore encourages the listening skills of even the deaf. She makes a well defined shift in that cafe chair and with that crossing of the left leg over the right one, only I am privy to that spectacular journey up her own personal canal. Nylons were indeed made for this woman. I get momentarily distracted thinking what those legs must feel like under my inching and roving hands. I reach, make contact and lift her chin. I am forcing her to meet me in my eyes. There is no searching in her eyes. She has a dark brown in them that is so fucking sure she can handle me. I let the mischief play at the corners of my mouth thinking this must begin. With a pleading pursuing a place on her lips, I note a nearly imperceptible biting of her lower lip. A little bit of a shiver in the chin still resting in my finger tips gives rise to the blood rushing to build a pyramid in my loins.

Oblivious to the book loving public, I am standing upon my pyramid. Wallowing in all my self described glory and stepping to the left of the table and turning my back to this woman, my mission is clear. It is clear to her and it is clear to me. As I walk away, I feel the draft I have created lift her to her feet. She knows to follow absent all beckoning. She is following me and I can now feel her breathing stifled by the image of my back dressed in my magnificent motorcycle jacket. Ahead of her by several paces, I make the decision to disappear into the most inviting aisle. Secluded, not by any means but spewing an aura of danger appreciated only by this esteemed encounter. She is not even surprised to find herself snatched up and into the aisle holding all the great works of philosophers dead and alive. Volumes of various textures and breeds will call this woman and I home...for a never to be explained moment. She is instantly in my arms and filling me with more of that Chanel 'Allure'. Her legs are hopelessly weak as they are parted by my experienced patrol. She pays the requisite respect when she exposes her neck to the intrusive and artificial lighting emanating from the ceiling. Awarding me the access I would take anyway. Her hands now wanting so desperately to be busy, can only grope the mahogany in the treasured book shelves for support. She has me burrowing into her everything. A thrashing about of us brings an inquiry from some peasant, aisle over bystander. He... or she (because neither of us is really paying attention to the attempt to disrupt) must have looked, said a polite 'oh my' and did exit post haste. The universe continued to belong to us.

I did ravish the nylons to the end that they must not deter my ultimate activities. They were neatly perched just above her knees when she raised herself upon her toes and even more permission to enter was exacted. I am now made drunk by the smell of her perfume. Causing equal excitement are her breasts arguing for posture and attention and suckling sampling. Never keep a woman waiting. Mouth meet breasts. 'Do suckle them into annihilation, I heard her thinking. Without creating wrinkles in the fabric I raise her skirt. That breathing... Her underalls are full down and there is this marvelous flow of liquid dripping through my fingers. A mostly undetectable breeze brings her true fragrance to my senses and I am mad with this notion of taking her completely. And the mahogany shelves are moving toward a buckling as more and more force is exerted against this woman and her grasp of reality is clashing with every body thrusting slam. There is more. So much more. The fragrance, the breeze, the breasts, the dripping liquid, the mahogany shelves. The ultimate motorcycle jacket. She is loosing her mind over me and its all pouring out of her pussy and back into my hands. This woman will leave this earth and come back to me...when she remembers that it is I who breathe for her and not God. Her submission is absolute and unrefined.

Bookstores are so quiet. Very plush carpeting muting the footsteps of all the book lovers. She is only aware of my absence because the ache in her soul begins to permeate her atmosphere. She is full but will always seek...the return of that jacket.

THE END

Copyright © 2001. Used by permission of author. All Rights Reserved.