Librarian Finds Long Overdue Love Ch. 23

February 11, 1989 (8 weeks out from wedding)

Single, middle-aged and bespectacled Angelina Lione may look the part of the prim, proper and sexually repressed, buttoned-up bibliothec, but she's most definitely NOT your father's librarian -- at least not while in a lover's company. Blessed with a ravenous and unquenchable sexual appetite, Angelina's orgasms are so intense that she frequently faints during the throes of passion.

While never mistaken for a perfect 10 with her large brown eyes, tucked behind oversized, Diana Prince-style eyeglass lenses, Angelina still cuts quite the desirable figure, with a fetching face always perfectly and tastefully made up, and a sleek and shapely body. Her short, black hair, speckled with gray, was cut in a chic, wedge/pixie-style, puffed and piled on the top and curled forward around the ears. Angelina's attractive physical traits, however, always paled in comparison to her overwhelming sex appeal. Using her vast store of feminine wiles, Angelina negotiates about her lovers' hearts, minds and bodies as deftly as she navigates the Dewey Decimal System, manipulating infatuated men for her monetary and personal gain.

High maintenance and even higher fashion, Angelina always models the latest designer threads -- oftentimes accentuated by any one of her dozen pairs of high-heeled dress boots. Her sophisticated look even extends to smoking accessories. The haughty diva wouldn't dream of smoking a cigarette if it wasn't filtered through her long, black holder. More of a cigarette holder sucker and stroker than a smoker, Angelina seductively works the black shaft with her mouth, tongue and fingers as if it was a penis proxy; the effect that playing with the long, stiff holder has on would-be lovers is like snake charming. Under the sexy siren's magic spell, they're entirely at her mercy; powerless to resist the temptation to pleasure her -- as if they really would.

Angelina spent her 20s and 30s as a fully-committed member of the sexual revolution of the 1960s and '70s -- bedding dozens upon dozens of men. Only when she reached age 40 did her love life settle down -- for her anyway -- when the lusty librarian entered into a long term, nearly exclusive, torrid affair with the principal at her school. After the forbidden relationship unceremoniously ended six years later, Angelina found herself alone at a time when her peers had long since settled down into blissful domestic life. A prolonged romantic dry spell followed, until a former student unexpectedly burst into her life.

Twenty-two year old Tom Bailey had been in lust with Angelina for years, drawn in classic fetish fashion to the sexy librarian's stylish, high-heeled boots, seductive smoking and even her pretentious and snobbish personality. Over time, his feelings -- like his fetishes -- for the femme fatale only grew stronger, until he could no longer keep them to himself. The pair had just launched an intense, physical relationship when Harry Seymour, Angelina's old boss and lover, re-entered her life. Unable to decide between the two romantic suitors, Angelina proposed a date-off -- or "fuck-off" -- as Tom bitterly described the arrangement.

Now, with her love life once again in full bloom, the amorous woman was in sex heaven -- reliving her youth, when men practically lined up around the block to date her. Preying on the men's sexual addiction to her, Angelina gleefully bounced between their beds for nearly a month, until Tom finally prevailed.

The love triangle finally broken, Angelina and Tom were finally free to embark on a committed, loving relationship. But the couple's path to long-term romantic harmony was lined with a phalanx of challenges -- not the least of which was familial. During their first fortnight together, Tom met Angelina's family -- and had been unnerved by her brutish and overprotective brother-in-law.

It was a couple months into their relationship before Tom worked up the nerve to introduce Angelina to his folks. The encounter set off a tremor that was bound to trigger aftershocks along the fault line of their courtship. The meeting with what turned out to be an old work adversary so unnerved Tom's mother, in fact, that she subsequently resumed a long dormant smoking habit.

That introduction went poorly enough, but how would Tom's college friends react to seeing him with a much older woman? What would be their impression of her? What would he see in her? Sure Angelina was attractive enough -- but she was an attractive older woman. Why would young Tom be interested in a 50 year old, when there were plenty of lovely ladies his own age available? And when they got a whiff of her pompous and bitchy personality, they'd really question what was in this relationship for Tom, and the age difference would be even more pronounced. The very real possibility existed that they'd disapprove of this affair, judging Tom a weirdo and mere boy toy to Angelina's dirty old woman.

Private by nature -- and especially embarrassed to confide in anyone about his smoking and boot fetishes -- how could Tom possibly explain to them that Angelina embodied all that he found physically alluring in a woman? How every time he saw the bitchy diva smoking from a cigarette holder or strutting about in a pair of delicious, high-heeled, knee-high leather boots it made his dick dance and pulsate with delight. Or that when he and this MILF-before-the-term-was-coined made love it brought him to heights of pleasure he never dreamed possible.

For a year, the pair engaged in an intense physical relationship, characterized by daily bouts of uninhibited, care-free sex and yet somehow devoid -- at least in Tom's viewpoint -- of satisfactory emotional intimacy.

Finally after a year of "dating," the two professed their love for each other and subsequently became engaged to be married. Still, their future seemed as romantically dysfunctional and clouded as their present. In part due to questions surrounding whether or not Angelina was capable of curbing her sexual enthusiasm.

For even while dating her confessed greatest lover, Harry Seymour, Angelina engaged in several dalliances with other men. Would the mere presence of an engagement ring on her finger be enough to stop a lifetime of promiscuity. Certainly if she were to sustain a long and healthy marriage, such party-girl misbehavior would not be permissible. At long last, can this cougar finally change her stripes and commit to a monogamous relationship with someone, preferably, her fiancé, Tom?

In the seven weeks since announcing their engagement, the bethroned couple of Tom Bailey and Angelina Lione (namely, the latter) had been working feverishly on preparations for their wedding in the spring.

For the first time in her adult personal life, sex was not Angelina's top priority. As the wedding date drew closer -- and the prep work took on an 11th hour feel -- the sex between the couple became so infrequent that when Tom drove to her house that February Saturday afternoon, it had been nearly a month since they last engaged in intercourse together; easily the longest sex drought the two had ever experienced. Suffice to report, Tom had more animalistic needs to fulfill than selecting flower arrangements or wedding favors. His balls were aching and he was willing to brave a fierce winter storm just for the chance to make love again to his beloved Angelina.

"Oh, darrhhlling, look at you, you're covered in snow, just from the walk from my driveway," a concerned Angelina said, waiving an empty long black cigarette holder in her hand, as she greeted her fiancé at the front door with a hasty air kiss that didn't come within five inches of connecting with her lover's lips. "Come in, come in. I'm on the phone with a caterer. Close the door, before any more snow drifts inside. And leave your shoes on the mat. I don't want you to track snow on my carpet."

Angelina finished talking with her back to Tom as she hustled into the living room and picked up the phone on the coffee table that she'd put down to answer the door. Tom did as instructed and then walked into the room in his socked feet.

The sight of his lover, dressed in a form-fitting, black cashmere turtleneck sweater and matching 2.5" high-heeled boots zipped to the outside and scraping the knees of her tight tan pants, arrogantly wielding her cigarette holder, instantly brought his core temperature up. Damn, she looks fucking hot, Tom said to himself, an erection building in his pants.

Listening intently to whomever was speaking on the other end of the telephone call, Angelina placed the mouthpiece of the holder between her lips. I haven't seen enough of that the last few weeks, Tom thought. She smokes a holder with the same seductiveness that she smokes my cock. Man, I want to do her right now.

"No, no, no, I don't want domestic caviar," Angelina argued into the phone. "I wouldn't be caught dead serving that to my guests. Don't you have Beluga caviar? Well, find a supplier who can give me Beluga and call me back."

Slamming the phone down in anger, a distressed Angelina turned back to Tom.

"You wouldn't believe how difficult it's been finding a suitable caterer," she said, with a roll of her eyes. "Every one I've talked to has been so gauche.

"Oh, what were we thinking scheduling a wedding in under six months -- and without hiring a planner? We've got a thousand and one things to do before then. Between work and wedding prep, I've been going at it 18 hours a day. I can't remember the last good night's sleep I had. I don't sleep any more, I just collapse."

Angelina walked over to the bay window in the room and gazed outside.

"But at least our honeymoon in warm and sunny Turks and Caicos will be divine," she said, a faraway look in her eyes. "We're going to party nonstop."

Re-focusing on the present, Angelina took closer notice of the blizzard raging outside.

"In the meantime, I don't care if your band is practicing for a date at Carnegie Hall, you're staying overnight tonight," the librarian demanded, possibly the first protective, motherly advice the 53 year old childless woman had ever uttered. "I don't want you driving under these conditions."

The frazzled woman then walked back to Tom, reached down to the cigarette case on her coffee table and hastily inserted a Virgina Slim into her holder.

"Give us a light please, darrhhling, would you?" Angelina asked her young lover, in her most pretentious voice, slipping the cigarette holder past her lips and on to her tongue.

Before he could pick up the cigarette lighter from the coffee table, though, the telephone rang again.

"The phone, it never stops!" Angelina said with an arrogant air of self-importance, bending over to pick it up.

Will I ever get to see her smoke tonight? Tom said to himself, his smoking fetish getting the better of his patience.

"Let the answering machine take this," Tom said, placing his hand over hers to prevent her from lifting the telephone receiver.

"Darrhhling, it could be a guest calling to remark about how beautiful our invitations are," Angelina said. "They were mailed the other day."

"Just let this one go. I'd like some time alone with you. We haven't had any time together, it seems, for weeks. Lets take a little break from all wedding talk, okay?"

"Okay."

Whoever called failed to leave a message.

"I guess it couldn't have been that important," Angelina said.

The wedding-talk break lasted all of 10 seconds, before the preoccupied woman picked up a white sheet of paper.

"This is what I sent to the calligrapher who is doing the wedding invitations." she beamed, proceeding to read what she had drafted. "'You are cordially invited to the wedding of Angelina Francesca Lione and Thomas Sina Bailey.'

"By the way, I never asked you...your mother's maiden name...'Sina,' is it Italian?"

"No," Tom said. "Iranian."

"Pity."

Tom took his lover's hand and led her to the couch.

"Angelina, I was really hoping we could make love today," he said tenderly, as he helped her down. "It's been a really long time."

"I know, darrhhling, but really, I have so many things to do," Angelina responded. "I promise that as soon as I get some of these details off my plate I'll give you my full attention. Believe me, we'll be making so much love soon you'll be begging for a respite. I'm going to wear that gorgeous body of yours out."

"But, Angelina..."

"I'm sorry, darrhhling."

Angelina rose from the sofa and picked up the phone to resume calling vendors. Out of the corner of her eye, a flame appeared. Turning toward it, she noticed Tom lighting a fat cigar. A cigar smoking man was Angelina's weakness and she reacted as if she'd been sprayed by a love potion.

"Now that I think of it, I have neglected you shamefully," the sexpot purred with a smile, returning to the couch. "Wedding prep can wait. Yes, lets most definitely make love."

Tom blew out a smoke ring and smiled to himself at the immediate effect his cigar had on his woman's sex drive. Angelina sat down next to him, tucked her boots under her, wrapped her left arm around his neck and rubbed her right hand gently up and down his chest.

"What should we do?" she asked, now softly nibbling on the left side of Tom's neck. "A little role play maybe? I can dress up in my dominatrix outfit, if you like."

"Not tonight," Tom said, after taking the cigar out of his mouth. "Why don't we just be ourselves?"

"Ooohhh...that's even kinkier."

Coming together in a warm, slow embrace, the two locked lips and proceeded to make out with the all the zeal of teenagers on their first date. The couple's enthusiastic foreplay continued for several minutes -- with Tom at one point even going for second base by cupping Angelina's breast -- until the sound of the mail slot on her front door opening and closing broke the woman's concentration.

"I bet the wedding invitation is here," she said, breaking lose from Tom's embrace and jumping off the sofa.

Tom sat in stunned annoyance as Angelina bolted for the front door to pick up the mail.

"It's here!" she exclaimed, ripping open the envelope addressed to her from her niece. "Lisa offered to mail them out for me and I asked her to send me one for our wedding book."

Tom walked over to his fiancé as Angelina excitedly withdrew the invite from the envelope and skimmed it. "Oh, they did a beautiful job."

Angelina handed it Tom, who began reading it.

"Isn't it just lovely?" she asked.

"Ummm...yeah," he said, unconvincingly.

"What's wrong?"

"Did you proofread this before it went out?"

"No. I didn't have time. Why?"

"Well, I guess I'm Italian now?"

"What are you talking about?"

Angelina abruptly snatched the invite out of Tom's hand; he braced for her overreaction.

"'You are cordially invited to the wedding of Angelina Francesca Lione and Thomassina Bailey," she read aloud. "Thomassina?!" They combined your first and middle names into one! Oh, my God. This invitation went out to my aunts, uncles and cousins, who...who... haven't met you. Who don't know you. They're going to see this and think I'm marrying a... womannnnn."

Angelina's voice trailed off and her eyes crossed. Catching his fainted lover just in time as she pitched forward before hitting the floor, Tom held up her limp body by the waist, shook his head and then dragged her back to the couch. As he gently placed her unconscious body on her back on the cushions the doorbell rang.

Great timing, Tom said to himself in mock seriousness, looking into the face of his passed-out lover, who had fainted so quickly that her mouth was locked open.

Tom walked back to the front door and opened it.

"Hey, Tommy. How are ya?" Rocco, Angelina's brother-in-law and next-door neighbor said, walking into the house and stopping at the mat. "Thought I saw your car out front. Where's Ang?"

Tom motioned to the living room and the couch, where Angelina lay, her left arm hanging limply over the edge and the back of her open hand scraping the floor.

"What happened?" Rocco asked.

"She fainted," Tom said.

"No shit. She faints all da time. I don't know how you put up with dat."

"It's just the way she deals with stress."

"What's today's stress? Ya tell her ya came to ya senses and don't want to marry da old battleax?"

"The wedding invites were mailed today. They spelled my name wrong. They spelled it 'Thomassina.'

"So..."

"That's a woman's name, so she was upset that some of her guests will think she's a lesbian."

"That's fucking hilarious. Oh, brotha. Well, listen. Elaine's in the car. We was just going to da store to get some milk and stuff to stock up in case the snow gets worse and we can't get out for a couple a days; I was checking to see if Ang needed anything."

"Yeah, I don't know. Want to wait until she comes to to ask her?"

"Nah. By da time she comes to after this shock it could be spring. But I'll tell ya...when sleeping beauty does come around, she's gonna be bitchier than normal. Why don't youz use dis chance while she's passed out to make a getaway? Make a break for it. I'll send Tony over to watch her (blissfully unaware that being assigned to look after his sexy, unconscious and vulnerable aunt would be the equivalent of putting a kid in charge of a candy store. The temptation of being alone with her in her present condition may be too big of a chore for his once-lovestruck son to handle), so you can vamoose."

"No, thanks. I'll stay."

"Ya sure?"

"Positive."

"Suit ya self. Doesn't sound like you're in for much of a fun time, though. Long as I'm here, ya need any help carrying her up to bed?"

"No, I can manage her."

"Good luck. I'll bring ya back some smelling salts."

Rocco laughed as he left the house. Closing the front door behind his future brother-in-law, Tom turned back to his swooned lover. Rocco didn't know about Tom and Angelina's "arrangement," whereby she gave him the greenlight to make love to her should she faint during the course of love making. But he was right about one thing: Angelina most certainly would not be in the mood for lovemaking when she revived.

Tom considered the situation for a moment. They were making out before the mail came. Close enough, he thought. Lifting Angelina off the sofa, Tom hoisted the woman over his left shoulder, tapped her butt with his right hand and carried her up the stairs to her bedroom, Angelina's arms swinging loosely at his back.

Gently laying his fainted fiancé face up on her heart-shaped bed, Tom unzipped his jeans in preparation for mounting and fucking Angelina for the first time in weeks. But as the horny young man slipped his pants off at the ankles, the voice of an angel spoke into his right ear.

She's been working day and night to pull this wedding off, and now you're going to selfishly take advantage of her while she's passed out, just to satisfy your basic primal desire? it said.

Why not? responded the devil, talking into Tom's left ear. Tom, you do this all the time. You were making out right before she fainted. She knew you were going to have sex, so go for it.

But couldn't you be doing something more productive with your time?

More productive?! What are you talking about? Look at her. She's so fucking hot. That beautiful face -- made up so perfectly -- and those sexy leather boots she's wearing; the ones that fuel your raging boot fetish. C'mon, fuck her. You know you want to and she's totally cool with it, so what's the problem?

Tom weighed both arguments for a moment and then quickly put his pants on and left the room before his temptation got the better of him.

Angelina's faint extended into a long afternoon nap for the physically and emotionally exhausted woman. By the time she awoke, some two and half hours later, it was past 5:00 p.m. The skies that mid-winter day were already dark, save for the still falling snow.