chapter one

 

I see her standing by the stacks in the old library. I'm surprised to see that she actually showed up. I usually don't arrange dates this way. But I was obsessed. I watched her every day for two weeks. She was doing research, and so was I; though after two weeks I confess I was doing more research on her than on my American Poets thesis.

My obsessions drive me to such things. In a mad impulse I finally peeked in the front of her opened notebook when she was off to the bathroom. I was looking for a name, maybe a phone number. That was three days ago. That night, I called her.

"Yeah sure, I remember you," she said, when I described myself. "You're the one with the gigantic blue eyes and the soft blonde hair. You were sitting at my table."

I'm excited that she remembered me at all. I feel so stupid, flustered like some school kid. I've never felt quite this way about a woman. I knew I liked women, but never like this, never with an obsession that made me follow her around, steal her name from her notebook, and find out where she lives and with whom (no one, I was glad to discover). Would she still be meeting me if she knew to what lengths I'd gone to feel close to her? My God, I was certain that if I didn't have some consummation to this heated insanity, I'd soon be stalking her nightly, peeking in her window, stealing flowers from her flower bedecked porch.

Seeing her now in front of the stacks, perusing some enormous art book that looks too big for her, I'm tingling all over, especially between my legs. That place gives me away, it leads me running around after phantom lovers like a child with a first crush. But Peach is no phantom.

I call her Peach when I see her dressed in this peach colored tee-shirt dress. It's nearly ankle length, but she might as well be wearing nothing the way her body seems to climb out on top of it. Her ass, which is turned to me is one of the pert round kinds. I see the hint of her cleft as an indentation in the material. I know when she turns around, that her pendulous breasts will be pressed against the fabric erotically, her tiny nipples poking through the cloth. I know this because other tee shirts I've seen on her do the same.

"Good evening," I say, trying not to scare her. Approaching people from behind can be risky, so I take it slowly.

She doesn't miss a beat, turning around as if she knows I'm there all along. Exactly what I want, a smile is beaming on her face, her bright cheeks glowing. And yes, there are her breasts with the conforming fabric of her dress showing off the subtle curves and her nipples.

"Cassidy," she says, in a voice that floats to my ears like Mozart. She gives off warmth like perfume. I can smell her scent, a fresh scrubbed soapy scent, kissed with the trace of some sweet hand cream. It's been hot, so there's a musky sweaty fragrance too, on her skin and mine.

"Hey Peach, I'm glad you came," I reply.

She doesn't balk, not even when I call her Peach. Her name is Samantha Clarisse Sykes. It's much too much a name for her, she's much more simple than that.

"I liked your invitation," she says.

"Not too bold?" I ask.

"Honest," she replies, "telling me you've been having erotic thoughts of me, I know that's a bold thing for you to say. You're really very shy, aren't you?"

I giggle a little.

She takes my hand and pulls me deeper into the stacks. We wind our way into the maze of tall metal shelves, into the bowels of this ancient place, searching for some privacy.

She touches my breasts first. Her hand is like a feather. I'm shivering. I can feel her touch in the top of my head underneath my hair, and at my shoulders, they're trembling, and of course, between my legs. But it's not enough that it's there, it's everywhere that shivers.

I lean forward, instinct leading me, and touch her offered lips with mine.

"Ooooo, I am in love," she says.

I can't believe that she's saying this to me. How can she love me when we've just met? Then, how can I love her when I don't even know her? Has she been feeling anything that I've felt, can I be that lucky?

She kisses back, and then there are a dozen more little kisses, while she leans into my body, pressing herself against me and fondling me more.

I think I'm going to swoon, until she laughs that lilting, approving laugh. She seems to know my trepidation and my joy, and tries to put me at ease with her hands. They are all over me. One hand breaches the bottom of my shirt, lifting it so she can fondle skin to skin.

"I don't understand this, Peach, why I love you like this," I tell her. I figure I need some kind of explanation.

"Shush," she puts a finger to my mouth and smiles. We kiss again. And I take liberties with her body. My hands were poised for minutes, then finally after she shushes me I have the courage to touch her, really touch her.

We're leaning against the stacks of books: the tall, fat, musty medical library where no one ever goes. I'm glad we have this privacy, because she feels free to raise my shirt enough to view my breasts with her eyes, not just her hands.

"You have such creamy white skin," she says.

I want to tell her, I find her dark tanned skin perfection, my blonde skin always seems uneven and flawed.

She presses her mouth into my breasts and kisses them all over. She sucks the soft flesh. Sucks hard, so I know that there will be a hickey there when she's done. I couldn't ask for more.

My hands reach around her so I can find her ass, that perky round one, with the melon globes of tight flesh that lightly bounce against the dress.

When I squeeze the cheeks, I can feel her thighs tense, her breath becoming short and excited. Pulling up on the dress, I want to feel the soft skin underneath.

We're wrapped together, pressed tightly. Her hands rove at will. Mine do the same. We're both wet like rivers between our legs. We're feeling each other in the center, where undiscovered clits become discovered, and once virgin holes become places to violate again.

"Cassidy, right there," she instructs me, as my hands find her special spot. I drop to my knees, I want to see it, tongue it, watch it burst. Her cunt is dark, a silky bush of hair covers plump brown labia. I spread the hair and the lips to find her clitoris. It's become a hard throbbing finger.

It only takes a few gentle sweeps of my tongue to discover what she likes best, what makes her throw her head back in a passionate stupor. She grabs my hair to keep her balance. So easily she could tumble to the floor, but I keep her stable. I want her to remember only that this was the most exquisite orgasm she's ever had.

Her cries are nearly inaudible, but to me they are like an ocean roaring with waves of fervent bliss that crash at my ears.

She claws my hair.

She tenses.

I work faster with my tongue against her clitoris, my fingers passing through her hole to bring her twin pleasures. Her channel around my fingers squeezes them tightly, a spasm of orgasm and then another. They seem to be rippling through her, one after another in an unending stream. My hands and face are covered with her juices. They taste salty and sweet, that fragrant musk of sweat, makes my own cunt ready.