This story was caught, filleted, and cooked in the FishTank (http://www.desdmona.com/fishtank).
Final seasoning, before presentation, was added under the supervisor of Master Chef MatTwassel.
Once upon a time in a drab and dreary bank, at a nondescript desk worked a plain and rather ordinary woman named Helen. As supervisor of the safety deposit vault, Helen conducted the business of banking in a professional and appropriate manner. In fact, accepted procedures, polite conversations, and appropriate behaviors seemed to pervade all aspects of Helen's life - even her marriage. But today was a Friday, and it was nearly closing time. Outwardly composed, Helen felt the low buzz of anticipation build inside her. The bank doors opened and Helen swallowed in anxiety. She forced herself not to look up. The gentle tapping of a cane grew louder. Helen stood and greeted her final customer of the day.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Williamson. How may I assist you today?"
During Helen's 27 years with the bank, she had observed Mr. Williamson visiting the safety deposit vault countless times. But it was only after Mr. Williamson broke his hip that it became interesting. He required physical assistance during his visits and asked that Helen accompany him. The new routine of Mr. Williamson's visits was always the same. Helen would turn the keys, pull the safety deposit box from the wall, and place it on the table. She would then open the lid and step far enough away to grant him privacy. Mr. Williamson, the skin of his aged hands translucent like parchment, would pull a photograph from the box and hold it unsteadily before him. His fingers would trace across the surface. Helen would watch Mr. Williamson's face gradually lighten, his eyes shine brightly, and his bent frame slowly straighten. The slightest of smiles would play across his lips, then purse into a kiss. He would slowly return the photograph to the box and close the lid.
Like the monotonous flapping of a bellows returns a dying ember to bright flame, the repeated visits aroused Helen's curiosity.
Today was no different than any other. Helen pulled the box, opened the lid, and stepped back. Today was no different as Mr. Williamson picked up the photo, looked at it, traced the image with his fingers, smiled and blew that silent kiss.
But today was different, because something completely unexpected happened. Mr. Williamson dropped the photograph. It sailed right out of his hand and seesawed down to the floor, landing face down. "Oh," said Helen in the quietest of voices. "I'll get it." Helen bent swiftly and picked up the photograph. By every code of professional conduct and customer privacy, she knew she should not turn the photograph over and look at it. But Helen did turn it over and she didn't just look at the photograph - she studied it. She simply couldn't help herself. The photograph itself looked old, and yet the image was fresh and clear. A girl in her late teens or early twenties seated on a park bench. Behind her, a long line of palm trees edged a white sand beach. The girl's face seemed innocent and carefree. Helen was drawn to her eyes, and she found herself looking deeply into them. The girl's eyes were wide in astonishment, or was it something else? The girl wore a simple sundress. The dress, unbuttoned and pulled slightly to the left, revealed... a perfect breast. The girl's left hand, which had just pulled the material aside, had a finger extended beneath a very erect nipple. There was something about the finger, though; Helen noticed that it was somewhat blurred. When Helen realized that the girl was stimulating her nipple, she felt her own nipples respond. Helen's gaze lowered along the line of opened buttons until she arrived at the very center of the photograph. The girl's right knee was bent with her right foot tucked just under her left leg. Her naked thighs led you to her exposed cunt. A wild patch of pubic hair crowned softly bulging lips - spread apart by the first two fingers of the girl's right hand. Helen's focus dimmed, her hand trembled, and she gasped as a mild orgasm shivered through her. The stale air of the vault filled with the strong scent of Helen's arousal. Mr. Williamson carefully took the photo from her hand and returned it to the box. That night Helen practically raped her husband.
"What was that all about?" her husband inquired afterward. "I needed it," Helen told him simply. Helen found that she needed it quite often. At first, her husband responded to her - gratefully, enthusiastically, vigorously and repeatedly. In time, his interest waned. Helen's did not. The photograph had enflamed something long dormant within her. Her comfortable life, at one time so safe and satisfying, now seemed leaden and mundane. She engaged in wild flights of fantasy regarding the girl in the photo. Helen began writing stories about the girl. Many of the stories were romantic and sensual. But some of her stories were sluttish, and the scope and depth of their depravity frightened Helen.
.... There is more of this story ...