tagFetishThe Quiet One

The Quiet One


Tuesday night. Quiet. I am sitting in an overstuffed striped chair by the window, a streetlight spreading a candle like glow over the pages of the book I’m reading. Hardly anyone here and it is quiet, except for the sound of my stockings scraping against each other when I shift my thighs, which I am doing frequently, given the content of the book I am reading. My face is warm with arousal, I’m torn between raising the book to hide myself and lowering it to hide the cover, embarrassed at what I am reading, but too absorbed in the stories to put it down. Not that it really matters, because there is no one here to watch me and they probably wouldn’t watch me even if they were in here.

No one here except for that little earthquake heading towards me in the form of boots that are clicking against marble floors, until he hits the carpet and becomes hard silence. I raise my eyes and peek over the top of the book at him, and snap back to the text the minute his dark eyes collide with mine. I lift the book higher to cover my face, remember the cover, drop it to my lap, remember to hide myself, and raise it again, blushing harder, breathing harder, my heart pounding as I acknowledge to myself that I have been caught. I can hear him pause on the carpet and turn. From behind the book, I can see he has disappeared into literature, somewhere around Ayn Rand.

Three pages pass, I am wet, hot, unbelievably absorbed, wide and so willing. I’m working hard not to remember, that unlike the people in these stories, I have no one to seduce but myself. I am definitely avoiding that thought. No matter how much I make love to myself, fuck myself, no matter how many of those toys that should be used by a lover: the ice, oils & lotions, beads, vibes, butt plugs and various other toys I bring out, knowing I will be embarrassed by them in the morning, but have me so very hot right now, no matter how many times I bring myself to the peak and then hold my cum back, before I finally give in and fall, screaming so loud I can=t control it, my nipples hard as I pull at them, vibrator thrumming away against my clit and hood ring, my thighs & stomach shaking, all of this doesn’t matter, as my cunt grabs desperately, clutching for a cock , a hot, hard, silky, engorged cock, attached to a warm man.

At those moments, when I lie there in recovery, shaking, already imagining the next orgasm because I have not satisfied anything at all, I can almost feel his mouth on my tits, his cock in my mouth, the taste and smell of him. But, I am not pretty, and men do not want to do these things to me, so I settle for myself.

I don=t even notice that my right hand has slipped across my chest, snaked under the fabric of my blouse, and is teasing my nipple, pulling my nipple ring against my skin, puckering, aching. I shift again, the shiver of wetness, actual drops, trickling down into my pantyhose. I pinch my nipple between my thumb and forefinger, nearly jumping at the pleasure pain. Suddenly there is a large hand on my thigh and I really do jump. I lower the book quickly, smacking the spine against the broad hand spreading out over my leg. The man from the literature section is squatting beside me, touching me so familiarly I should smack him for real, but instead I apologize. "I'm sorry," I say.

He smiles, and I see an unidentifiable flicker in his eyes. "No need to apologize,” he says “I'm sorry I startled you." He is older than I am, too old for me, probably, then the muscles in his thighs push against his jeans when he shifts his weight. "How's the book?" he asks, as I watch the movement of his head, only the slightest motion, his eyes locked against mine, stroking my jaw. I am blushing and stumbling nervous.

"It's um, good," I say weakly, wondering why I can't be normal and read mystery novels like other people do in bookstores. "So I see," he says, smiling as he looks toward at my hand, my fingers still working my nipple. "Oh god," I say, and yank my hand away from my breast. I'm too embarrassed to even say I'm embarrassed. "It's okay," he says, as his hand travels, one long, slow, heavy, circle on my thigh, and when his hand stops, he is further up my leg and his fingers are pointing towards my cunt. We both look at his hand and then he removes it and stands. "Your coffee's cold," he nods towards my mug, which has ceased steaming and has evaporated into pale sludge. "May I buy you another?" "I don't,” I’m stammering, stuttering, swallowing. He offers me his hand, firm. Don't say no. You can't say no.

Over coffee, I spill the sugar twice and my coffee three times. His name escapes me but I am right, he is too old for me, but I am not exactly overwhelmed with offers. He is an architect, or so he says, and he is reading a novel I have never heard of. I left my book upstairs. He peers at me over his mug, which he holds with both hands wrapped around it, as though he were warming them, but I can still feel his palm print burning against my thigh and I know his hands are not cold. They are large, strong, slightly rough, and I can see the cuticles fraying and imagine the calluses against my skin.

My suit is too tight, and I shift against it uncomfortably as the skirt rides up my thighs. "Don't,” he says, the third time I stop to adjust it, and he slides his hand up the back of my thigh, taking the skirt with it. He removes his hand and studies his work. I inhale, hoping that will eliminate the thigh spread somehow, but he doesn’t seem to mind. "What do you do, quiet one?" he asks me, sipping from his mug, his lips thin and broad. "I work in an office," I say, feeling stupid and gawkish, childish even and wishing I could run out. I am incapable of flirting, I know this, and the woman behind the counter knows this, why can't he just think and figure it out and just let me go? He just laughs, though. "Do you always read erotica in public?"

There is something about his wording that is slightly British, but modest, and his voice is deep and warm around me as though I could press my palm against the broadness of his chest and feel the rumble. "No," I say, as I stumble over the words again. "I mean, I just, picked it up." "There's nothing to be ashamed of," he says, and I hear tenderness in his voice, though when I look up, I don’t see it in his face. He puts down his mug and lays his hand across mine. I jerk away and spill my coffee again; blushing thinking to myself, make it end, please make this end.

He leans forward and his tone becomes conspiratorial. I can smell the coffee on his breath, nearly taste the cream. "I found watching you as you read very arousing." I am shaking from the tones of his voice and my cunt is calling out to him, and I am absolutely terrified of this man right at this very second, and more terrified because I don=t know if I am more afraid that he will kill me or make love to me. I jerk back again, coffee staining his arm. "I'm sorry," I say, and I’m almost in tears this time. I grab some napkins and dab at his arm. "I just, I should go," you should have left me alone. He grabs my wrist encircling the bone, with the pudgy fingers and lays his other hand across mine. He laughs, genuine, his grip steel. I jerk away and spill my coffee again; I am blushing again; tears well up in my eyes. Make it end, please make this end.

"Quiet One," he says. He stands, takes the napkins from my hand, kisses me softly on the forehead, the cheek, and pulls back. He is holding me by my shoulders, looking down at me. Is that what you want?" He has a car so we take it, along rain slicked city streets, lamps reflecting in the asphalt, sidewalks quiet with trash and recycling. I am huddled against the door.

At a stoplight, he does not look at me, but his hand finds my thighs and pulls one of my legs towards him, forcing them apart. I can smell my own cunt, my own desire, my own heat, and I am sure he can too. "Would you do something for me?" he asks suddenly. I don't say anything. He looks over at me. "Unbutton your blouse," he tells me softly. It is an order, but it is not a command. I sit for a moment, and then, leaning forward, I slip my suit jacket off and unbutton my blouse. There are holes in the lace of my bra and when he reaches over again, without looking, to run the back of his fingers over my breasts, my nipple pokes through the weave, dark rose against faded white. I inhale sharply, though he has barely touched me. I know now what it will feel like when he does, and I want to scream out that I want this so much. But he pulls his hand away. "Could you take off your bra?" This time it is a question, but I cannot and will not answer no, though I hesitate with the hooks.

I realize that I will have to take off my shirt to take off my bra and I look outside but there is no one to see. This isn't how normal people do it, is it? Is this how people get seduced? I pull off my shirt, turning to pull the tail out from the waistband of my skirt; my naked breast brushes the cold window. I inhale sharply and I can hear Edward smile behind me. I have done this when I masturbate, held a breast against the coolness of a mirror, nipple kissing its own reflection. I love cold and ice against my skin, wanting more, and more before the welcoming heat of a mouth, teeth, lips, tongue.

He pulls over to the curb and parks the car. I am breathing heavily. He reaches over and again he trails the back of his hand over my breast, his knuckles teasing my nipples; my mouth parts. He unbuckles my seatbelt and then his own, he moves towards me. He kisses me softly once, and then lowers his head to my breasts, kissing around and across my collarbone, over the flesh, then finally catching each nipple in his mouth, sucking. I throw my head back, amazed, moaning, and my hand travels automatically to plunge into my cunt, my fingers at the ready.

He doesn’t look up, he just grips my hand and pulls it behind my back as he bites my nipple, gently, his teeth electric against my skin. I start to cry out, “Please..." I beg, but he simply lowers his head to the other breast, still pinning my arm behind my back, he sucks and nibbles and chews until I am writhing beneath him. "Oh baby," I breathe, and I hope I sound like a romance novel when I do. He lifts his head and releases my arm, nearly asleep. He reaches for my breasts and tugs at my nipples, pinching them between his thumb and forefinger, like he was testing for something. I jerk again, like a rag doll, and he nods, as though I have pleased him somehow.

He walks around to my side of the car and opens the door for me, chivalrous to the last, and I fumble to put on my blouse before I step onto the street. The light at the end of the block turns green and two cars drive by. He shakes his head at me and pulls me to my feet, my blouse hanging on my arm, my nipples pouting against the night air, colder, wetter, than any mirror. I start to object. He pulls me to him and kisses me, hard, his tongue crushing against mine, tasting my teeth, my desperation. He is hard, I can feel his cock against my stomach, and that pleases me, knowing that I did that. He pulls away suddenly and then a car passes, and I am standing there, drugged with heat & lust, the headlights shine on my bare breasts, stained with bruises from his mouth, his hands, exposed for anyone to see, to touch. My cunt is so wet, so wide, so ready, that I can hardly walk, and I knew, at this moment in time, I would do anything he asked.

The elevator creaks its way up the shaft, slatted light falling across my breasts, interrupted intermittently by the floors. I look at this man, sliding a glance through my stumpy lashes, cheap mascara long since faded. He is considering my breasts, but he looks neither pleased nor displeased. I wonder if he is thinking he has made a mistake, now that he has seen the way the waistband of my skirt folds to accommodate the swell of my stomach. It's too late for a diet now. Ashamed, I reach to pull the blouse to cover me, and without looking away from my tits, he reaches out and slaps my hands back to my sides.

"Sorry," I say, for what seems like the fifteenth time that night. He shakes his head. Do not cover yourself unless I tell you to." The elevator jerks to a stop and he gestures me out into the hallway. I step uncertainly, my shoes clicking against the floor. A few doors down the hall there is a man fumbling with his keys at his door. He is tall, thin, looks foreign. An orange brown leather jacket and a newspaper folded under his arm. He has spiky blonde hair, small black rimmed glasses; I think, European. He looks up at us, and I want to move to cover myself, but I can feel Him behind me, and I don't dare.

I feel very small, suddenly, between these two men. I half expect to be rewarded for leaving my shirt off, but of course, there is no reward. The man at the door simply smiles at us as if he sees half naked women in the hallway all the time, and then opens the door to his apartment and steps in. He steers me down the corridor, the floor Alice in Wonderland black diamonds, white diamonds, checker board, chess board, checkmate, Quiet One. He slips the key in the lock and ushers me into a dark hallway.

Light ahead, dim yellow glow cast by an old shade, I walk toward it, drawn, like a moth. It leads me into the living room, where the only thing I notice is the books; hundreds of them, maybe thousands. Floor to ceiling bookshelves, and then stacked along the exposed brick walls when there is no longer enough room on the shelves. I run my fingers along the shelves, tasting them with my fingers, so overwhelmed with quantity that I do not even read the titles. He walks up behind me and I turn so my back is against the shelves, spine to spine with these books. He stands in front of me this time, I want to run away so badly, I just want him to take away this ache, want him to suck on my nipples until they stop pulling at my skin, want him to swallow me whole.

He pulls off his shirt and I bite my lip at his chest; broad, firm and muscular in that rigid, quiet way that is the most masculine of all. Curls and whorls of hair threaded with gray, and I can imagine the taste of the salt on my skin. My tongue flicks out, serpent like. I look up at his face and see the same gray lining his temples, scattered through his hair, his goatee, which has sincerity about it. I catch myself wondering whether there will be gray hair, well, you know, everywhere, and the image of his hard cock rising up from his thighs makes me swallow hard.

I watch as he fingers the collar of my shirt and then slips it over my shoulders, letting it fall in a heap on the floor. No different than what I would have done, undressing myself. He reaches for my hands, which I am holding obediently by my sides, fighting the urge to scrape my nails down his chest to the trail of hair that disappears into his waistband, and he brings them to his mouth, nuzzling the knuckles, breathing against my palms. Then he lifts them higher, interlocks our fingers, presses the backs of my hands against the bookshelves, I feel the cool painted wood. I have to stretch to keep my hands up as high as he is holding them, pinning me against the hard covers of the books, and only when I am immobilized just so, he leans down to kiss me. His kiss is soft, he tests before he attacks, tasting my teeth, my tongue with his own.

It makes me start to shiver all over again, makes me forget about the ache in my arms and think about the ache in my cunt again. Pushing my arms out, he makes me trace a snow angel in the air. He slides both our hands under my breasts and leaves mine cupping them, proffering them, a harem girl with a tray of silver fruit. He steps back and I lean to follow him, drawn by his simple existence, by the fishing line of tension he has drawn to my cunt. "You can put your hands down." he tells me, when my biceps are burning by my sides. He lets my hands drop and my fingers flicker, instinct telling me to reach for what I want, newfound knowledge telling me that if I reach I will not capture it. "Would you come with me?" he asks? "Yes," I answer, too quickly, and he turns and walks down another hallway, by the chrome kitchen, closed doors. In his bedroom, again, he has one lamp burning, this one so quiet I can see little more than outline and shadows. He leaves the door open and I stand awkwardly by the bed.

"Would you undress for me?" he asks, and I wonder why he asks me yes or no questions when I would not dare to say no. I nod, and fumble for the fastening at the back of my skirt. I hesitate, consciously nervous again. Do I take it all off at once, the skirt, the pantyhose, and the panties? I can=t bear to have him see me standing in my pantyhose, my faded underwear, so I hook my thumbs inside all three and begin to pull, stumbling and sitting down heavily as I pull them off the rest of the way, glowing in humiliation.

It doesn=t look like this on TV. "So we'll work on that one," he says. He is leaning against the wall, a casual observer, his shoulder blades pressing against the doorframe, stomach and hips jutting out, he makes a taut bow with the wall. "I'm sorry," I apologize again. He shakes his head and lifts himself from the wall. "You'll learn,” he says simply, and I wonder what he means by that. He walks towards me. "Turn around." I stand and turn, and he slips his palms under my bent elbows, cupping them in a familiar intimacy. His breath is hot on my hair and though I cannot see him, electricity tells me exactly where he is. I raise my hands to touch my own breasts. "No," he says sharply and grips my hand. "Not unless I tell you to." He slips his hands up to my shoulders, his skin tough and slightly rough, sighing against my own. He rubs my shoulders for a moment, relaxing them from their tight clenching, and then he pushes down ever so slightly. I kneel on the bed in compliance.

"Quiet One," he says, and breathes into my hair again as his hands move. One hand slides under my breast, cupping it, thumb strumming the nipple, the other along my stomach, pressing when I inhale to escape the touch, fingers lacing through my pubic hair. "Ahhh," I moan, and at the sound of pleasure, he pulls away. His hands skim back up to my hair, thread through so they are curled around my head, and he pushes down. I let my hands support me on all fours. He pushes again. I lower again, until I am kissing the bedding, my ass in the air, careful that my hands are balled into fists, barely touching my own skin. He lets me go and steps back.

I spin away for a moment, letting myself see what he sees, a spill of reddish brown hair over the sheets, sun deprived white skin glowing in the darkness, the lips of my cunt pouting and glistening, my ass spread wide. Open to him, for him. His hand traces the bones of my spine, jarring over each one, and then he trails one finger between the cheeks of my ass, down into my cunt, over it so slightly, and a slight dip to avoid my clit. He pulls away. "Don’t Move," he says. I don't Move. I hear him, the rustle of his pants, and his feet on the floor. The door clicks closed.

The silence, after a while, does become deafening. Sweat pools where my stomach meets my thighs, and the exposure of my cunt to the air does nothing to dry it. I want to touch myself, release it. If I were home, I would surely be shaking in the throes of a self delivered orgasm, my back arching, hand pressing harder against myself to feel the throbbing, one, two, three, so hard, four, five, softer, disappearing into shame. Is this better? I move my hand, but the sound of my betrayal is so enormous I stop myself. I lick my lips and shift, and then stop myself again. Don't. Move. I cannot hear any trace of his footsteps. I picture him in my mind again, surprised at the clarity with which I remember his details. My memory has a way of slipping, so that I cannot recall the faces of even my family in their absence. He comes easily to me.

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