Lady Victoria Eclectic Pagan's blog: "Erotica (NSFW)"

I was seven years old when I got my first library card. I still remember the feel of the laminated plastic, my scrawled attempt at a cursive signature. It was like holding one of my grandmama's two week old poodle puppies in the palm of my hand - a world of possibilities.

That little card was punched until the corners resembled gummy pig tails. By then it was too late. I was hopelessly addicted to the smell, the feel, the wonder of all those books.

It was a craving for that feeling that called to me from an open door as I meandered along my favorite hippie block. The sign read: "The Real Look Bookstore, for independent book culture." Now that sounded like my kind of place. One mad dash against traffic later and the smell hit me like an insulted prizefighter - square between my eyes. Not much larger than an inner-city classroom, the small space had been transformed into an urban literary oasis. From floor to ceiling, the potential of every corner maximized for optimal storage, ease of access be damned. As my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting and my senses reeled at the beauty of all those wonderful books a voice in the back of my mind said welcome.

The immediate high of that glorious book smell began to level off as I heard it again.

"Welcome."

It was no longer in my head but coming from my feet. With a frown I stared down at my tan wedge slippers half expecting to see them talk.

"Welcome to The Real Look."

Definitely not the sandals. They looked distinctly feminine while this voice was potently masculine. I turned in its direction to see a beautifully brown man crouched on his haunches studying me with undisguised amusement.

"I'm sorry. I didn't see...Well. Thank you."

I cringed at my artless response. What was the matter with me? I'm never flustered. Never. At least not for myself and certainly not by a man who, as he rose to his feet, stood only a couple inches taller than me.

There was that smile again. No, not quite a smile. More of a smirk with less arrogance - more awareness. He'd noticed me. That much I could tell. I'd come a long way from the chubby seven-year-old whose best friends lived within the confines of Young Adult Fiction. Maybe shorter than I'd like, my full breasts and hips had still managed to attract far more admirers than detractors. Tae-Bo and the occasional denial of my hunger pains kept my plumpness pleasant the way my kind of men like. I could tell he definitely liked.

But there was also something more than the aggressive appreciation I'd come to expect; his slight smile seemed to reach up through his eyes and right across the small expanse of cluttered floor space to the corners of my own mouth, enticing it into an equally engaging smirk. We stood there for several long moments smirking and wallowing in the smell of ink and genius.

It was only the entrance of another customer, a regular, I gathered from the way he called "chocolate wonder Ian", that moved me from the spot just inside the entrance. With a wave and a friendly reply he - Ian - never broke from my gaze. He seemed completely unselfconscious about his obvious interest, his immobility, his appreciation of me. I was not so lucky. Something about the gravitational pull of that smirk and those laughing brown eyes that seemed to marvel in my discomfort made me very uncomfortable. Stick with what you know. Thank god for the voices in my head.

"Is this your store?"

"Yes."

No more, no less. The brother apparently had no idea that he was. A brother, I mean. Brothers have "talk game." They come prepared with witty repartee, honed by playing with other brothers-in-training. Double entendre and sexual innuendo comes standard issue with every post-adolescent brother. Damn if Ian seemed to have missed the memo. He offered no more than what I asked...and that smile. And good Lord that chest. As my eyes searched for somewhere safe to land I could see it clearly now through the thin cotton tunic he wore. Through design or the frequent washings of a favorite garment - I couldn't know which - the fabric was so thin as to border on indecent. A muscled wall of chest, the sloping curve of hardened pecs, and the whisper of an etched stomach - I could see it all. And he knew it.

"How long have you been here?"

I'm reaching. He knows it and doesn't give me anything to cling to. Damn him.

"Just a few months."

"It's very nice."

"Hmmm."

A low moan of arousal or an innocuous response, either way the sound only caused his chest to shift beneath the see-through cotton. I couldn't help but watch every move.

"Ian. Is my special order in? The 48 Laws of Power?"

The call came from the back of the store from the guest I'd forgotten existed. Natty, white boy dreads hung from his head like overcooked pasta. But he was working the poor, anti-establishment bit to the hilt - Birkenstock sandals, rainbow hued hemp poncho, tattered cut off khaki shorts. He wanted to know about power? He should look at Ian.

I couldn't stop the thought. How the hell would I know something like that? Sexy? Yes. Powerful? Doubtful. He's just a nerd, like me; with iron cast abs and expressive eyes. Exactly. Keep repeating it.

That's just what I did as Ian broke our stare off to look for natty boy's map back into majority culture domination. With a shake of my head I took note of the shelves, the books on them, amazed by the variety in such a small store. Everything from best sellers to obscure classics lined the walls. I reached out to stroke the spines of Othello, Waiting to Exhale, The Bluest Eye knowing he was watching me. I didn't have to turn. I could hear him ringing up dread head's purchase, the modem dialing for credit card approval, the hum of meaningless small talk. But I also knew that somehow he saw me caressing the hardcovers; saw me leaning closer to inhale the scent each one gave off. I pretended not to notice.

I was standing in the self help section trying to decide if today was the day I wanted to live my best life or get my best body when natty boy walked out leaving me all alone with Ian. I almost called him back except I was 90 percent sure he wouldn't respond too well to "hey white boy" or "natty! Please don't go!"

So I stood there pretending to read. Somehow it never crossed my mind to leave. Why didn't it occur to me to leave?

"Looking to improve your life?"

Now he was standing behind me. For such a thick man he walked like a cat. I never heard him approach. He was just there. And he'd asked a question.

"Excuse me?"

Now I could actually hear the smirk.

"You don't strike me as the kind of woman who reads self help books."

A veiled insult. Now there was something I could grab hold of.

"Really? What kind of woman do I look like?"

Big talk from a punk too scared to face him as I said it.

"Don't you know?"

He said it in a whisper tinged with awe and a bit of ironic wonder. Like he knew me. Like I should know myself. How dare he?

"I have a name." I snapped. "Lisa."

Why did I do that? He didn't need to know my name.

"Don't you know...Lisa?"

God the man was insistent. And obviously immune to honey-laced venom. I knew what he wasn't immune to. With my own smirk masking the nerves jangling in my gut like spare change I turned to face him with breasts held high by the wonders of underwire and my ramrod-straight back. I could see the glint in his eyes spark brighter. There, take that, I thought with smug satisfaction.

"Maybe I'm aiming for my higher self."

"Only goes to my point. This is not the section you're looking for."

Backfire. The gleam in his eyes ensnared me, softening my spine, worrying my senses, aggravating my nerves. How did he do that?

"What am I looking for?"

I hadn't meant to exhale just then. It made me sound...breathless. More than a little needy. Aroused. Desperate. Searching. He'd heard it. It was in the way his spine lengthened, the way he adjusted the width of stance, bringing to mind a warrior in his prime. Except this was no battle. Was it?

"Let me show you."

That was definitely not a question, neither was it exactly a command. More like a foregone conclusion, like all manner of things had been determined from the moment I'd entered the store. With a spin on his heel too graceful to not be amazing he stalked towards the back of the store. It only took two of his pounding steps for my need to know to outweigh my desire to flee. Know what? I just knew I didn't want to be left behind. Not this time. Not by this man.

I refused to think too much as is my normal response to stimuli. Instead I allowed the vibrations of steps against the warped hardwood floor to lead my feet. The rest of me gladly followed, relieved someone had made a decision. We made our way by the small enclave that housed a computer, past the stacks of religion and philosophy, over the boxes of new inventory. It was all just a few steps. Such a small store. So many possibilities.

Possibilities. It hung in the echo of my last thought as Ian stopped short before a small closet that had been converted to squeeze in a few more books. Books. What had I expected?

Ian turned to face me. His smirk had deteriorated into a grimace but his eyes still shone bright and deep against his light complexion and dark lashes. For a moment I was glad of his height and the way it afforded me an unobstructed view of the emotions playing across his face. I'd always been particular about tall, lean men - basketball player types with sinewy muscles and graceful limbs. Ian stood barely 5"10 - taller than me but short for a man. With his broad shoulders and densely muscled physique he looked like a retired linebacker. Yet his eyes, with their brown warmth, softened a frame that could have been too intensely masculine. And he did own a bookstore. That had to be worth several inches alone. Inches. I swallowed. Hard. Why was I thinking inches?

"This is my private collection."

From anyone else it would have sounded cliché, but from Ian it rang true with the inflection of pride in his voice.

I stepped just inside the threshold as he pulled a cord and flooded the room with light. It was bigger than I'd first thought. Ummm...bigger. What was wrong with me?

Ian stood aside, silently inviting me to look my fill, to enter his private world.

Dante, Morrison, Socrates, Homer, Hurston, Baldwin - the books told me everything about him. He'd warred with the fragility of man, marveled at the potential of a human being, and warred with the concept of God and right and wrong. He found beauty in the struggle. He was a thinker. That explained his eyes. He was a revolutionary. That explained the force field of energy that even now was sucking me into an emotional vortex. He was almost brutally perfect.

As I moved along the walls deciphering his innermost secrets from titles I knew well, he stood quietly. Watching. He was always watching. And waiting. He was waiting for something.

He stood aside as I traveled along the final wall. I could feel his posture stiffen. My breathing echoed his discomfort, coming faster than I could explain. We were so close to...something.

I discovered a new row of books with my fingertips hearing the catch in his breath as I grazed the spines with my fingernails. It was here. Whatever "it" was, it was here. I just had to discover it. I had to look closely, so worn were the titles. One large leather volume in particular called to me. The gold lettering had long ago faded into impressions making its contents a secret, but somehow I could just feel the energy pulsing from this one. Between the harsh light and Ian's distracting presence my eyes struggled to make out the words.

"Marquis..de..."

"Sade. Marquis de Sade."

He sounded relieved. The name echoed in through my brain, touching on faint remembrances. I knew it was a name I should know.

"Have you ever confused pleasure with pain Lisa?"

In a flash I knew the story. All the stories. The debauchery, the debasement, the insanity. I knew the Marquis de Sade just as I knew Anne Rice, Laurell Hamilton, Lori Foster and Lora Leigh. I'd read them all - from the Story of O to Black Silk. What had began as a wayward search through hidden library stacks had blossomed into a private lusting for erotic literature. Too ashamed to check them out or to be found in 'that' aisle of the bookstore I'd wept with gratitude when the internet brought my favorite naughty habit into the privacy of my home.

Did I know them? Some of them I knew by heart, but he could have never known that.

"I knew when you walked in. I could smell it on you. I could see it in your eyes. You felt it, didn't you?"

He was standing closer as I still fingered the massive book. Paralyzed, I stood as he continued in a voice so low I had to focus all my senses on detecting his words.

"You have your own secret place for them."

Under the bed in my spare bedroom. I shuddered. He knew.

"You've dreamt of it - of the feelings in books like this."

Those muscled arms came around me then to grasp the book in my shaking hands. Long fingers, too long for his height, but perfect for so many things steadied mine as I watched.

"I can feel it coursing through you. Which is your favorite?"

His thumb stroked the soft webbing between my forefinger and its kin. His breathe blew at the bead of sweat trickling down the nape of my neck. How could I not answer?

"Age of Consent."

A tale of an inexperienced young woman molded, trained, shaped by an older, experienced, dominant lover. It was my favorite.

"Excellent choice."

Somehow Ian's praise lifted me. He took the now forgotten book from my hands and replaced it on the shelf. I waited for his arms to return, but instead he stepped back leaving me cold and violently alive.

"Turn around."

This voice was different. It wasn't laughing or cajoling. All the breathy desperation was gone and in its place was confidence that rattled me into gleeful submission. I turned.

"Good girl. This is going to go well isn't it, Lisa"

He said my name to taunt me. He was laughing at my earlier show of strength. I was the butt of the joke and I didn't care. It was going to go well. I nodded yes.

Pleasure at my acquiescence made his hands clench. He wanted to touch me. He was struggling with his control as much as I was struggling with my submission. The thought turned my flurry of nerves into a tingling of arousal. Please let him want me that bad.
I moistened my lips with the tip of my tongue knowing the contrast in color, the wetness it would leave behind would taunt him.

"Do it again."

That was definitely a growl. Of pleasure. He wanted me. I did it again, slower this time, tasting my lips as I went. He appreciated the effort.

"Come to me."

I wanted to scream with pleasure at the insane brilliance of his request. Of course I would come to him! I wanted to come to him! I stood before him on wobbly legs as he watched my chest rise and fall rapidly with each shallow breath.

"Are you scared?"

I nodded, too beyond myself to speak.

"But you like it? The fear. You like it."

He didn't need an answer but I nodded anyway.

"Good."

Before the word even left his mouth his hands were pulling my sensible, white scoop neck t-shirt from my jeans. I prayed it would be the last sensible thing I thought of. In a flash of sensation my shirt fell to the floor, followed by my bra. My large breasts drifted slightly lower without that trusty underwear.

"Beautiful."

One word and I knew I was acceptable. I sucked in a breathe hoping to entice him to touch and he did. He touched everything, everywhere at the same time. His lips touched mine as one hand molded a breast and yet another found the curve of my butt cheek. His knees brushed my thighs, his hips ground almost painfully against my pelvis. He touched me like his life depended on it and I couldn't help but to respond. The sensual pain blended with the sexual ecstasy turning me into a willing participant. My hands groped his strong, solid back as my tongue slid across his in response. I willed my nipple to grow harder, bigger, to caress his palm. I fought back against the iron of his hips with the softness of my own, making him groan.

"What do you need?"

He whispered against my mouth. No one had ever asked me that.

"Hard. Fast. Everything."

It was the truth. I realized it the moment I said it. I didn't need to be coddled or treasured. I needed to be wanted beyond reason. I wanted to be taken so that the memories I knew I would relive forever wouldn't wash me in guilt every time I recalled them. He understood, had understood me from the moment I walked in.

"Take them off."

I pulled away from the heat of his touch just long enough to break free of my jeans and sandals. I considered my panties only for a moment before the steel in his gaze demanded they go, too. Naked under the bright lights I knew he wouldn't turn off, I waited for his next command.

"Undress me."

I felt every inch of him grow impossibly larger and harder as I stripped him with trembling hands. The cotton shirt went up even as I began pushing his black linen pants down. He didn't wear any underwear. And he was impressive. The flat stomach I knew would be there had only hinted at the deeply etched V that pointed down to a thick thatch of dark hair and beautifully veined dick. It varied from shades of butterscotch to licorice. My mouth watered at the thought. He saw me swallow and read the request in my eyes.

"Yes."

In a flash I dropped down to honor the etchings of that deep V. He moaned as I laved him with my tongue and milked his dick in my hand. From one side to the other I traced a path, inhaling the musk of arousal as I went, unsure if it was his or mine. In my hand he jumped as I nipped the flesh at his pelvic bone. My nipples buzzed in response. The knowledge that both of us wanted it spurred me further down. I never did this. I didn't even know if I'd be able to do it right. Of course I'd seen it done...but he was big and I wasn't a professional.

"Do it."

The command freed me from my doubts. I started with a lick - just a tiny little swipe of tongue across the slit that leaked passionate tears as I went. I liked it. Almost too much. I licked again and again until the head turned almost purple under my teasing. Wondering at his ability to literally change colors I swallowed the head, moving my tongue in tight circles as my hand held him still against my lips.

"Suck harder."

He could have told me to roll over and play fetch and I would have done it. Everything I loved was in that room - books, beautiful words arranged erotically, the smell of pages, his deep V, his hard stomach, his colorful dick, his commands, and my pleasure. I tightened my grip; hollowing my cheeks I spurred him deeper into my mouth. I gave up on the pretense of breathing to take him faster, harder, deeper towards a throat that should not allow it, but did. I sucked furiously, watching his face for signs that I pleased him.

With a moan of regret Ian pulled his flailing cock from my mouth with a wet pop.

"Not yet" he panted. "More."

I stood, waiting, knowing more was coming. With a look of intense concentration and pleasure he pushed me against the only wall not covered by books. Lifting me onto my toes with a knee at my weeping crotch he arranged me to take him. I heard the rattle of the front door at the precise moment Ian plunged inside me in one smooth, practiced stroke.

I tried to speak. I tried to tell him we weren't alone.

"Don't say a word."

It was grunted in my ear and I obeyed. The visitors called out for help, asking if anyone was there. The walls of my pussy spasmed in response. Fear and lust became inseparable. Would they catch us? Did I care?

"No. It's just us. Just this."

He seemed to hear my questions. Amazing. Had I spoken aloud without knowing? The thought lasted only as long as Ian's next plunge. He was both long and thick and I was wetter than I had ever been. The flesh around his cock was swollen as he punctuated each thrust with a masterful roll of his hips. As his pelvic bone pressed against my distended clit I wanted to scream. I may have. I couldn't tell. My body was focused on where it met Ian's and my mind could still detect the rumblings of the store's guests.

"You will come. Do you understand?"

I was too afraid to speak. I wasn't sure if I would whisper or yell.

"Nod your head. Do you understand?"

I knocked my head against the wall I nodded so hard. Whatever he said, that's what I was going to do.

"Fuck. I should have bent you over first. I should have played with your clit. I could have sucked on you, but I couldn't wait."

A groan of dismay at his lack of control. My pussy wept.

"You like that. I can feel it. What if they walked in Lisa?"

Faster the wetness trickled now. I felt the first twitch of uncontrollable release.

"Just like I thought. What if they joined us? You'd like that, too, wouldn't you?"

A muffled cry. I was so fucking close. If he'd just tap my clit again or let me touch, let me scream, something.

"That's what I thought. Would you fuck them if I told you to?"

My eyes widened as an image of bodies writhing and stroking one another, mine at the center welcoming the feel of strange dicks and soft breasts and warm, intimate kisses flashed in my mind. The stiffening of my body wasn't lost on him.

"I'd only let them taste you. That's all. I'd let them lick at you, nibble on you, play with you. I might make you play with them. It sounds like a couple. You'd take them both. I'd watch you as a woman ate your pussy. For hours, Lisa. You'd...love...it."

Each hot whispered word was punctuated with his forceful thrusts. He knew I'd like it. He could tell from the way my legs clenched and my cervix opened to meet the tip of his dick. I couldn't find the words to say it aloud but the vibrations of my hungry pussy must have said it all. He knew I'd do it if he told me to.

"Not...until...you...come."

As the front door jingled to signal the customers exit my body bucked away from the wall, slamming uncontrollably against the unyielding flesh of Ian's. From a distance I heard the echo of his groan but it no longer mattered. I was gone. One more hard stroke, one more pass of his thumb across my nipple and my heart leapt into my throat as I flew.

Like a bird freed from a gilded cage I coasted on the pulsating waves of the orgasm racking my body, bowing my back. I ignored the cramp in my leg as Ian pulled violently free of me to spew the thickness of his satisfaction across my stomach. In slow motion every spurt seemed to jet in the space between us, pause momentarily and then land softly on my burning skin.

A loud rumble in my ears kept me from hearing the books that fell to the floor, just as the trembling muscles deep in the core of my passage blocked the sensation of us sliding to the floor.

Several minutes passed before my peripheral vision returned and the world began to right itself. Seeing myself as Ian must I refused to be ashamed. He'd told me to do every bit of it.

"I close at 8."

That smirk was back.

"So."

"So, I'll see you then. Won't I ...Lisa"

I never should have told him my name. The way he said it, all ominous and dark, intensified the once subsiding ripples of pleasure dancing along my spine. The suddenness of my response had me crumpling farther into the ground. Ian reached out to catch me. Tenderly he lifted me back up to face him.

"You'll be back."

Less cocky now, his voice matched the pleading in his warm brown eyes.

I nodded yes.

I would come...back and again.

Hell, who am I kidding? I do love a good book. And I could always say he told me to.