"Good morning, Miss. I've got your usual station reserved for you, if you would just like to follow me."
Damn, it's the school ma'am; Tuesday is usually The Angel at this time. Oh well she might be in later I suppose.
I don't wait for the librarian and head off on my own, I've been coming here at least three times a week for the last 5 years and can find my own way to the warm oak desk that has almost become my own. She tags along just to be sure, I suppose it's part of the job, but I'm too tired to join in the whispered small talk. I place my hand on the back of the leather upholstered chair, my index finger resting in the place where the missing metal stud should be and I feel at home.
With a curt, unfelt 'Thank you, ' I dismiss the school ma'am and move to the rack of books behind my desk and find the tome I was reading the last time and heave the heavy, leather bound book back to my desk and settle down to read.
"Don't stare." I hear a voice whisper to my left and a young child's voice answer "But mummy, that lady is following the words with her finger and her lips are moving, you said only little girls do that when they read."
I ignore the brat as it is dragged away, hopefully to be chided for its grossly uncivilised behaviour. Self consciously I try to stop myself mouthing the words as I read, but the flow dries up and I make a conscious decision not to let the miserable kid ruin my pleasure, but the spell is broken and I stop to take a drink from the bottle of water in my bag.
Sitting back I let my mind wander as I take the roll call of my fellow bibliophiles. To my left and 3 stations behind is Bruno, his tweed jacket smelling of damp from the rain this morning, mixed with the heavy pipe tobacco that gave me his name.
To my right is Florence, named for the way she speaks with a slight Italian accent and her apparent insatiable love of tomato sandwiches.
I wasn't surprised that Miss Marple was missing, she was an infrequent visitor on Tuesdays, presumably having to make time to go to the post office to collect her pension, and anyway this morning's rain would have set off her cough so I am not disappointed she has gone awol.
Until Bruno pushed back his chair and snapped his book closed, and from the sound I knew he had finished his novel, I wasn't aware of time passing, the words flying off the page to create a world in my mind. He shuffles to the desk and speaks sotto voce to the librarian, although with this old buildings acoustics he may as well have been shouting, and in some ways it would have been easier to ignore if he had, there was something about a whisper that just cried out to be listened to.
I check my watch, the hands making the perfect vertical line of six o'clock and I decide to stay a bit longer and return to my fantasy world in the pages of my book.
I roll my head and feel a crick in my neck, but I'm not ready yet to go home, especially as I hear the sound of metal tipped heels on the tiled floor, The Angel has arrived. I continue to try to ease the stiffness in my neck as her voice floats across the room, like water rushing breathlessly over submerged rocks as she apologises to the school ma'am for being late.
In comparison to The Angel's voice, the other woman's is harsh as she berates her colleague for being so inconsiderate and proceeds to put things in her hand bag in a way that just screams her bad temper before stomping out.
Although I've never actually heard her, I'm sure in her mind The Angel hums to herself as she click clacks round the shelves replacing books in their proper place, and I'm sure the school ma'am disapproves of it, in fact she probably disapproves of The Angel per se. But I don't; I love to hear her heels making a staccato statement that she is a woman as well as a librarian, her long cotton dress swishing against nylon clad legs pronouncing her femininity.
"Well zat is enough for tonight." Florence say's, stifling a yawn; and her chair scrapes backwards and her soft leather boots muffle her steps as she leaves, the wind whistling for a moment as she opens the door to the outside world I came here to escape.
I try to return to my book, but my mind is elsewhere, following the sound of The Angel as she moves between the stacks, then I realise I haven't heard her for a couple of minutes, she was in the travel section and now there is just silence, the sort of silence that is impossible to ignore.
In an instant I'm back in my parents garden, the scent of roses my mother held for me to sniff, their soft, velvety petals brushing my nose and cheek transporting me there in a flash; and I know she is behind me, her perfume so sweet and heady it almost masks her natural musky odour, almost but not quite, the two combining in a wonderful way that robs me of my ability to concentrate.
I read and re-read the same line over and over but the words don't form a coherent whole in my mind, each one an island, isolated from its neighbour and the scent grows stronger and I can hear her soft breathing as she moves ever closer on her silent stocking covered feet.
I wait for her to speak but the deafening silence remains and I flinch involuntarily as I feel her hands rest gently on my shoulders, her thumbs pressing lightly just below the nape of my neck finding the knots that have settled there as I read. The thumbs press a little harder and I feel the long nails of her fingers against the top of my collar bone.
The thumbs move as mirror images up beneath my bob cut, her palms sliding forwards until her little fingers are just beneath the open neck of my silk blouse. I let my head loll to one side, my cheek caressing the smooth skin on the back of her hand and her perfume becomes stronger and for the merest instant I feel her hair brush my other cheek.
I want to speak, but her silence makes me mute and I just fall back against the chair, my shoulders cushioned against her cotton covered stomach.
She's bolder now, her little fingers following my bra straps downwards towards my already aching breasts and any tension I had felt was dissolved beneath her expertly gentle touch.
Her hands come together, her index fingers touching as they move down between my swelling breasts, the other fingers flowing over the lacy material of my bra, before her nails scrape back, having not quite reached my nipples as I so long for them to do, and heaven, they move back and I feel her hair again, prefacing the warm lips that are now kissing the side of my neck and I moan, softly, but it echoes around the high room as her teeth close lightly on the lobe of my ear.
I press her hands against my breasts with my mine, only the gossamer thin material of my blouse separating them as her warm wet tongue slips inside my ear and I am unable to suppress a shudder and I'm scared she will think I don't want her to continue, but she doesn't stop, her lips now landing velvety kisses on my cheek before vanishing only to resume on my other side, repeating each practiced, enchanting touch and I squeeze my thighs together, trying to magnify the delicate tingles that are tickling my dampening pussy and I know my aroma is mingling with hers just as I want our bodies to mingle.
I whimper as her hands withdraw, leaving mine to fondle my breasts through my blouse. I feel her take hold of my glasses and remove them and I'm afraid, vulnerable without them and I start to protest but her hand holds my chin, her index finger lying horizontally across my lips, forbidding me to speak, and I taste her, my lips parting and my tongue exploring the length of her finger. She tastes clean, a mixture of soap and moisturiser and the hint of varnish on her nails and I want to bite her digit but it is removed, leaving her taste in my mouth and the forbidding in place.
Soft silk covers my eyes and it smells of The Angel, as if the scarf had been around her neck and I let her tie it behind my head. I am hers now, I know whatever she wants The Angel can have and I shiver to think that what she wants is me.
.... There is more of this story ...