CASS: TAKEN IN THE STACKS
A Red Bank
Fantasy
(an excerpt)
Cass
has never been all that good with people. Books? Books she gets. People…yeah
not so much. Opening a used bookstore should have been the perfect job for her,
right? Because, well…books. But then
there’s the people factor. The customers. It turns out the book business is
more about people than about books. Because without customers it’s just you
alone in a roomful of books. Which sounds…heavenly, really… But Cass alone in a
roomful of books doesn’t pay the rent on this place or on her apartment
upstairs. And right now? Cass is alone in this roomful of books. Totally alone.
Like usual. She opened at ten and it’s nearly two now and not a single customer
has come in yet. Not one. She’s going to have to start taking in typing jobs—do
people still do that? Is that a thing still? Or laundry. She’ll have to start
taking in laundry like Charlie Bucket’s mom in Willy Wonka.
A year ago she’d fled New York City for her hometown
of Red Bank, New Jersey, after a bad breakup—an awful, horrible, no-good
breakup—from her boyfriend Rick. She’d meant to get a fresh start, but how
fresh can a start be when you’ve run back to the little riverside town where
you spent your awkward childhood? And it’s not exactly a mecca of commerce, is
it? Maybe if her shop was on Broad Street she’d get more business from foot
traffic, but as it is she’s tucked off on a side street between a palm reader
and a hippie jewelry shop.
It’s
clear. Cass is going to go bankrupt and have to move back in with her mother
and her mother’s hairy, thick-lipped husband Earl, and then she’ll die of
humiliation. But no…there’s the optimistic little bell on the door as it opens
and an actual customer walks in. A man…
Oh
my. A handsome man, close-cropped chestnut hair flecked with silver, big brown
eyes, full lips. Well-worn Levi’s hug long, muscular thighs. A simple but
expensive-looking cream button-down shirt covers broad shoulders, the sleeves
rolled and pushed up to reveal strong forearms. He licks those full lips. He
opens them to speak. “Hi,” he says. Simple, just like that. Hi.
Oh
god. She’s staring at him with her mouth hanging open. He thinks she’s nuts.
She can see it there, crossing his face, the thought that she’s nuts. He’s a
customer, he’s walked in and said hello and she’s…doing what, exactly? “Hi!”
she says, just a shade too bright. Laundry. Definitely a future in washing
other people’s laundry. “Can I help you?”
“Just
browsing,” he says, and smiles at her. A warm smile. A devastatingly bright
smile.
He
looks familiar, though she can’t place him. Red Bank is a pretty small town.
She’s probably seen him around before. But not in the store. No…she would have
remembered that. He walks toward the fiction shelves, trailing a hand along the
spines of the books as he goes. She often does the same thing herself, loving
the way the books tick by under her fingertips, the way a smooth dust jacket
gives over to the rough weave of an unjacketed hardcover, then the wrinkles of
a paperback spine, creased from having been read, consumed…
“Consumed…”
She says it aloud before she can stop herself, and he looks up sharply. She
blushes hard and pretends to shuffle through papers at the counter. This is
exactly the kind of thing Rick used to give her shit about. “Do you have to be
so awkward?” he’d say when she’d get tongue tied at some party or out with his
awful friends. “What are you so afraid of?” He wouldn’t say it kindly though,
no. He wouldn’t say it like it was a challenge they could face together,
figuring out exactly what got Cass so self-conscious she could barely speak in
a group of strangers. He would say it like she was broken.
“What
are you so afraid of?” She was afraid that when she did speak, Rick would mock
whatever came out of her mouth. Early on, when she did venture to join in on a
conversation, he would latch on to something she said and tease her about it in
front of everyone. Maybe he was just being playful. He’s the youngest of six
kids, and maybe that’s what love looked like in his house. She told herself
that a lot. That he didn’t mean to humiliate her, that he couldn’t have meant
her any harm. But she’s not his little sister and it never felt like playing.
It
was the same in bed. He would push her to open up—to talk dirty to him, to tell
him her fantasies—and then he would laugh at her awkward attempts, her blushing
and her stammering. Once she admitted that she sometimes fantasized about
having sex in public, with a stranger. Maybe it bugged him that she got hot thinking
about a stranger fingering her on the subway instead of him. Maybe that was it.
“Or maybe he’s just an asshole,” she mutters under her breath. Whatever it was,
for weeks afterward he would nudge her toward the oldest, hairiest, smelliest
men they saw and say, too loud, “How about him? He get you going?”
Asshole.
The worst of it? She didn’t leave him. He was the one who ended it. “I
love you, babe,” he’d said. “I do. But the sex…it just isn’t doing it for me.”
The
implication: because she was dull, shy, scared. Maybe he was right. And if he
was right, then that’s got to be the worst of it. Because where does that leave
her now?
The
customer? Now he’s exactly what she would picture in those fantasies of hers.
Tall, handsome. A kind smile. Older than Cass. Old enough to know what he’s
doing, old enough to have patience…
He’s
out of sight now, and he calls out to her. “I think I could use some help after
all.” His voice is deep and rich. She straightens her skirt and goes to find
him at the back of the store. He’s in the History section, eying the books on
World War II. She walks up beside him and he moves in close, the scent of wool
and coffee coming off him, and something subtle and spicy just below that. He
reaches to touch the spine of a book and his bare forearm just barely brushes
the side of her breast. Warmth radiates from his skin, sending a sweet, sharp
jolt through her.
“Are
you looking for something in particular?” she says.
“I
am.” He steps behind her, his left hand coming to rest on her shoulder. She
feels the heat of it through her thin t-shirt. She wants this man to touch her.
He’s a complete stranger. He’s old enough to be her… Not her dad. He’s old
enough to be her uncle. Her much older cousin. He’s… he’s standing so close
behind her. She can feel his breath in her hair, can feel… Is that?!
Yes,
Cass, that is an erect cock pressing against your ass. You remember those,
right? Cocks? It’s been a while, hasn’t it, hon?
“I
see you’ve got volumes two and three of Hume’s
History of War. Do you have the first volume?” He says this so calmly, so
smoothly, as his hands slide down her body to cup her hips, pulling her back
against him. Oh yeah. That’s his cock, alright. That’s his very big, very erect
cock. That first sharp jolt spreads to a low hum of electricity, her pussy
going wet, her thighs quivering.
“Um…well…I
think I had one a while back but…Unf…”
He tweaks her nipples, her full breasts caught in his confident hands. Wow…this
is… This is some hidden camera shit, right? This is some practical joke?
Because there’s an incredibly handsome man sliding his hands up under her skirt
right now. There’s a complete stranger bending her forward, her hands braced
against the History shelves as he pushes her skirt up over her ass. There’s a
man she doesn’t know at all who’s lightly tracing her pussy lips through the
very, very damp cotton of her panties and all Cass can think of is how she
wants him to tear that cotton away and plunge those fingers inside her and… oh….
“Did
you ever wonder why old books smell so good?” he says.
“It’s
one of the best smells in the world,” she says.
He tugs her panties down her legs and kneels,
patiently holding them as she steps out, her clunky red clogs getting hung up
on the elastic. She steps out of the clogs, too, and kicks them aside. Somehow
that—bringing her height down almost two inches, standing on the cold floor in
her bare feet—makes her feel more vulnerable than stepping out of those panties
did. “As the paper ages, it gives off a scent that’s very close to vanilla.” He
runs a finger along the side of her bare foot. “It’s an aphrodisiac.”
He’s
kneeling still, and he turns her around, wraps his arms around her waist and
pulls her in against him. He smiles up at her while his hands slide back up
beneath her skirt to knead her ass. “Hey there,” he says and laughs.
“Hey.”
She smiles back. She giggles. And just like that, she feels safe. He gives her
that little bit of gentle, that little bit of goofy, that says “Hey, this is
kind of crazy, what we’re doing, isn’t it?” Because it is fucking crazy. They don’t have to pretend they’re in some kind
of bookstore porno. They can admit it’s crazy and do it anyway. Because they
want to. She wants to. She wants him. Now. She turns around and hitches her
skirt up, baring her naked ass. She bends over, plants her hands back on the
World War II shelf.
This
man, whoever he is, he doesn’t waste any time. He’s on his knees behind her,
diving in, his tongue teasing her pussy open, long slow strokes from top to
bottom and then he zeroes in on her clit, his tongue circling and flicking as
he slips one, then two fingers inside her. A long moan escapes her mouth, a
sound so low she feels its vibration in her throat but barely hears it. And
then another moan, louder, and a gasp and her legs start to shake, her pussy
hot and slick, its muscles gripping his fingers. His fingers work against those
wet, contracting walls, hitting her g-spot with each stroke. “Oh god oh god oh
god…” Her orgasm boils up from her center and spreads through her like cold
fire, the most gorgeous enveloping numbness, her body gone, gone, gone… She
collapses back against him and he eases them down to the floor. She lies in his
arms, this man…this stranger. She leans back against his chest and he thumbs
her clit, teasing one little aftershock of an orgasm out of her, then another.
It’s almost too much. She pulls up to her hands and knees, starts to crawl away
from him, shaking her head, trying to come back to herself, to her senses. And
then there’s the sound of a condom packet tearing open and his hands are around
her waist and he’s pulling her toward him and then hot hot heat, pleasure so
sharp it borders on pain, as he pulls her back hard, impaling her on his huge
cock. He drives into her, filling her completely. On her knees, ass in the air,
cheek pressed to the cold linoleum of the bookstore, the door unlocked and
anyone could walk in, and Cass is getting fucked by a stranger. She’s getting
fucked hard.
She
looks back over her shoulder, expecting the guy to have his eyes squeezed shut,
but he’s looking right at her. He smiles again, that same kind smile but
twisted with lust, his chin and cheeks slick with her juices.
“You
look great like that,” he says. “You’re a gorgeous little thing.” He pulls her ass tight against his hips and
holds her there, grinding into her in a slow circle, stretching her, stretching
her. She moans, her body starting to shake. He laughs, but it isn’t Rick’s
mocking laugh. It’s a laugh of pleasure. “Good girl.” He picks up the rhythm
again, fucking her hard and deep. Her body shudders with the force its
absorbing. God, it feels so damn good…
He
slips a big, hot hand around her waist and down between her legs, finding her
clit again. Just a few little circles and she’s gone, her orgasm ripping through
her even bigger than the first, and she feels her pussy milking that massive
cock, her whole body quivering and jerking. A scream, high and sharp, cuts
through the air before she recognizes it came from her own mouth. He drives
harder and harder into her and then pulls her back against him, holding her ass
tight to his hips as he comes with a shudder. They fall in a sweaty,
half-dressed heap on the floor.
“You
sweet, sweet girl,” he murmurs. “Sweet, sweet thing.” He curls his body around
hers, stroking her hair.
“What’s your name?” she says. She’s afraid to
turn to face him, afraid she imagined the kindness, that it won’t be there when
she looks again. What must he think of her, that she would let a stranger take
her like that?
“Peter.”
“Do
you want to know mine?”
“If
you want to tell me,” he says. “Yes.”
“It’s
Cass.”
“Short
for Cassandra?”
She
nods. Only her father ever called her Cassandra, and he’s been gone for years.
Dead when Cass was twelve.
“Cassandra
who sees the future.” He stands and pulls up his pants, tucks his shirt back
in, dusts himself off. He holds out a hand to Cass and helps her to her feet.
Cassandra who sees the future. Cassandra, granted the gift and curse of prophecy
by Apollo. Her father, who loved Greek mythology, had chosen that name for her.
She
feels shy now, tugging down her skirt, not sure where to look. This isn’t who
she is, this isn’t the kind of thing she does. She should straighten herself
out, put her shoes back on. What’s the etiquette in situations like this? What
do you say to a gorgeous stranger who’s got your pussy juices drying on his
chin? “I can’t find my underwear,” she says.
He
chuckles and pulls a corner of white cotton from his pants pocket. “I’m hanging
on to these, if you don’t mind.” He kisses her then, their first kiss. It’s
soft and deep and lingering. He touches her cheek and smiles that smile. “Thank
you, Cassandra.”
And
then he turns and leaves the store, the bell tinkling in his wake, leaving Cass
alone again, but with a wonderful soreness between her legs and the scent of
man on her skin.
<<<>>>
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