Call Me Ismael

Call me Ishmael. That's a joke. Actually, the joke is my parent's. They had a sense of humor. It's my actual name. If you don't believe me, you can look at my NYC Driver's license. Anyway, this story ain't about me, it's about Angel.

She works with me in the book store. Somedays I will see her. Climbing up the ladders in the store. Stretching to put books back on the shelf. Her red hair like a morning sunrise. Wearing a short, light green skirt and black heals. She is like the ballerina of books. The way she climbs up the ladder. The way she lifts her foot while she is stretching to reach the shelf. Her calves firm and curvaceous, her white thighs a highway to a dream.

Hey, I know what you're thinking. This is librarian fantasy. Well, no. We work in and a bookstore. So, no. Duh. And two, she don't wear no glasses. Anyway, I digress.

It was early. Only one decent coffee shop open in Burlington, VA fuckin early. I arrived at the bookstore and locked the door behind me because I don't want customers walking in before we open. I am carrying my hot cup of coffee and go to the backroom to put my stuff in my locker. I pass through the door way, and there is Angel. She is up on another ladder we have in the storage area. Putting away books. I'm thinking. Our boss isn't even here yet. Why you working?

"Ishmael, can you be a doll and hand me that book?"

So, I do. When I hand her the book and she is putting it away I can't help but notice I can see right up her dress. She is wearing white cotton panties with lace that are dividing her sweet white ass. I know I shouldn't look. It's not a nice thing to do. But to me, it's like someone leaving money out on the New York City subway.

"Ishmael, are you staring at my ass?"

This would have been a good time to lie. I think: I will probably lose my job, the lose my apartment, then have to drag my ass back to Brooklyn. But I tell her, despite common sense, that I was. I say: when beauty presents itself, it is our duty to pay attention. Surprisingly, she smiles. Dimples, appearing on her cheeks.

"Well, are you just going to look?" she says, coming down the ladder. "Or, are you just here to browse?"

Her white panties are at eye level. So, I kiss the soft cotton middle. I can feel her lips just under the fabric. I brush my lips against hers. I wonder if she could feel my hot breath. She begins to pant. I kiss around the outline of her lips. Then, move down to her calf and licking those too. Slowly working my way up her thighs.

"Ishmael, please. Before Yolanda comes."

So, I pull down her white cotton panties. Her red pubic hair, in front of my face. I bring my tongue down into her. Sucking the very top part of her. Angel is open and wet like a pink rose. She moans softly. So, I press my face into her more, licking her like she's a fuckin gelato. I look up at Angel as I go down on her. Her lips are open. Her face flush. Her red hair down. Hand bracing against the ladder. Moaning louder.

She comes down from the ladder, and points her small white ass toward me. You don't have to tell me twice. I step behind her and put my hard cock inside her. She is getting hot. I can tell because I see sweat gathering on the back of her neck.

"Come on, fuck me! Quick."

So, I do. Pounding my cock into her pussy, as Angel is fingering herself. Going faster and faster until Angel, grips the ladder one last time. She cries out.

"Oh, fucking Ishmael!"

Then I come.

Two things. One. Going to a coffee shop that gives you napkins is a good thing. Two, Yolanda's a bitch. But you know that already. She comes in later and says the place smells like fish. Angel and I look at eat other. Her face the red of a tomato. I wink at her. I tell you Yolanda that I had a tuna fish sandwich for breakfast. She walks around the place spraying air freshener like her ass never saw shit.

"No more tuna fish sandwiches Ishmael." she tells me.

Fuck that. I'm Ishmael. Don't tell me I can't have fish.