The name Linda is derived from the Spanish word 'lindo' which translates to 'pretty'. Or so I think, but I never studied Spanish in school and that is what my computer told me.

For some strange reason, I have never — OK, one exception — met a woman named Linda who was not at least pretty, if not totally beautiful. It's as if the parents know, while the baby is still in utero that she will be lovely to look at. I say 'she' because you rarely meet any boys named Linda.

I've known Linda's of all persuasions: lily white Anglos, brownish Puerto Ricans or other Hispanics and dusky blacks, er, African-Americans. I love them all. The beauty who walked into my store that day fell into the latter category.

If you haven't met me before, my name is Bernie. I own a used bookstore but unlike the other fictional Bernie, the only 'crimes' that I would consider committing are fornication, sodomy and adultery, and fortunately they're not crimes anymore. Not in this country, anyway. That's why I have that room in back with the one-way mirror and the convertible couch, which is always in the open position. And always with a clean sheet. I used to have a chair like that, but I decided to pop for the extra bucks and get a bed that would be comfortable enough for two. Never tried three; doubt that I ever will. Though you should never say never.

As usual, I took in the picture of her entire body as she walked through the door. Peter The Great jumped to attention, which he usually does whenever someone with an opening between her legs comes into view. This one though could have given a dead man a hard on. Dressed to the nines in a form fitting business suit, she looked like a high powered executive who had blasted head first through the fucking 'glass ceiling'. (That's maryjane talking, by the way.) Her black hair curled over one eye, ala blond Veronica Lake — you have to watch old movies to know who I mean. She stood about five two and had a body that looked absolutely ripe for the plucking — or fucking or sucking or whatever 'ucking' you prefer.

As usual also, I gave her the soft stare that I put so much effort into, that attempt at eye contact which doesn't scare the cunt. This one gave me a smile back which said 'I hear you but that doesn't mean I'm ready to jump in the sack with you'. My own over-inflated ego added the words 'not yet' onto the words I read in her mind. She approached the counter.

"Hi, I'm Linda."

Oh yes, she was mucho Linda as far as I was concerned. Fortunately the counter behind which I stood kept Peter The Great from announcing the same thing, which he was silently screaming behind the zipper where I keep him at bay.

"May I help you?" Our eyes continued to converse, but I was still unable to get hers to switch to the subject that I had in mind. Oh Linda, if you walk out of this store without a visit to my back room, I'm going to have to go back there and take care of Peter The Great immediately or I'll be useless for the rest of the day.

"I'm a lawyer and I've been working 24/7 on a case. We just put a big time pimp away for the rest of his life and my boss sent me home to get some sleep. But I can't ever fall asleep without a book and I need something light."

"Life in prison for pimping?"

"And for killing one of his whores."

OK, Bernie, think fast. What can you say to get this piece of ass onto your bed? Come on, baby, let's fuck? Nah, that's stupid. Should I suggest the Kama Sutra? It's definitely not light but it'll get her mind back to sex. Nah, almost as crude as the other thing. Maybe, I've been dreaming about you all of my life? True, but she'll just laugh. Come on, Bernie, think, think. The way your head is so fucked up, you'll never get her into bed and you won't even sell her a book. Think, man, think!

"You know, you do look kind of tired. I've got a bed in back. Why don't you lie down and I'll go down to the coffee shop and get you a cup of tea? What do you take in it?"

"I don't like tea." She said it without hesitation.

Yet a silence lingered in the store; you could cut it with a knife. The scene teetered on the edge of something, still able to fall one way or the other. I might lose a customer altogether or maybe spend a wonderful afternoon. It was up to Linda, for, though her mouth was motionless, she still had something else to say. My heart pounded. Petitioner Bernie had made his application to the Court; Judge Linda either had decided it and was pondering her wording, or she was still making up her mind. Our eyes locked and I waited, taking small breaths so as to remain quiet.

"But I am tired. Do you have any hangers for these clothes?" she asked, breaking her gaze and looking down at her body.

"Yes I do," I whispered, forcing myself not to scream the words out. "Yes I do."

I went to the front door, locking it and putting up the sign that said I was getting laid. The actual words were 'Back in One Hour' but the other storekeepers around me knew what it meant. They kidded me quite a bit, but I had no doubt that they were jealous. Tough shit, fellas; I've got a business I can lock up anytime and no wife looking over my shoulder. Of course, with that attitude toward my neighbors, even jokingly, it's a good thing that I didn't have to go next door to borrow the hangers.

I entered the back room just behind Linda. She surveyed the scene, the boxes of books, the desk cluttered with paperwork, the file cabinet. And the bed! Once she saw it, she focused on it, not turning away. I put my hands on her shoulders and began to massage her neck.

"I think I'm starting to wake up, Bernie. Can you think of some way for me to get tired again?"

I turned her around to face me and opened the three buttons on her jacket. Her eyes never left my face as I took it off of her arms and reached for a hanger. I keep a handful of wooden ones for emergencies — like being able to satisfy a cunt that her good outfit won't get wrinkled - using the drawer handles of the file cabinet as my closet bar.

Her blouse buttoned all the way up to the neck, giving me a lot of work. Not that I objected, mind you. I started at the top, my fingers moving very gently so as not to shock her in any way. She stood patiently while I handled each button, but I feared that any unusual motion would wake her up to reality, that she'd change her mind and that I'd be totally S.O.L. I mean, I was terrified that I'd wind up having to give Peter The Great a personal hand job when I had this beautiful thing right there and willing.

Her bra began to come into view about a third of the way down from her neck. Light beige, soft material, it didn't quite cover all of the chocolate breasts that I thought would measure out at 34B. I didn't touch them, continuing instead on down to her waist. She still didn't move, leaving it to me to pull the bottom out of her skirt and finish unbuttoning. I could feel her eyes still burning into my face, as though she were trying to remember my face for a future lineup. The blouse had buttons also at her wrists, another little task before I could get it off and hung on the file drawer.

Standing there patiently in bra and skirt, her eyes finally left my face, darting down to glance at Peter The Great, who was busy pressing against my zipper, trying to get out into the fresh air en route to getting back inside something else. The view of the tent in my pants caused her to smile just a teeny bit; she had caused and seen many such tents in her time. I would have thought by that time that Linda might open her own bra but she made no move to do so. Sighing (silently) at the things one is forced to do, my fingers moved to the front clasp. Again I deferred from giving her tits even a little feel, concentrating only on the clasp.

And then it opened, the cups falling away to the side. I gave a gentle touch to the straps and they began to slide down her arms, the entire bra falling to the floor behind her. I bent to pick it up.

"Leave it, Bernie. I'm not planning to wear it home anyway."

For one crazy moment, I thought that she planned to leave it with me. Then I decided that she meant something else. My eyes took in those gorgeous tits, perky things that didn't really need a bra; I guess she wore one because of her job. They rose and fell with each breath she took, those likable, suckable tits. I put a hand under each one, not weighing them so much as just touching them, feeling their warmth, their silky softness. My thumbs feathered her nipples, already hard without my touch. That didn't deter me from bending to suck them.

I pondered what to do next, whether to continue on to her skirt or to start on my own shirt and jeans. Linda decided for me, reaching to my waist to pull my polo shirt over my head. She bent to lick each of my nipples, hardening them until they were like hers. But no, they could never be like her nipples, supported as hers were by those beautiful, squeezable tits. Tits I hadn't yet squeezed though.

Linda stepped out of her shoes barefoot; she wore neither stockings nor pantyhose. Her fingers deftly opened my belt and zipper. A gentle tug took them over my hips and the jeans fell by gravity to the floor. I kicked off my shoes and stepped out of my jeans, barefoot like my guest. Free at last, Peter The Great popped out of the fly in my boxers. Linda looked at him, crown inflamed with lust, his shaft throbbing as blood pumped in. Her dark, soft, sensual fingers took him gently in hand and tucked him back inside my shorts.

"Not yet fella," she purred. "Just wait a little while longer."

Her hands dropped to her sides, signaling me that I had to return to the task of removing her skirt. Two buttons, one zipper and it was free. I held it in my hands as I slid it down her body until she stepped out of it. One more hanger, fumbling with those damn skirt hooks, and it was safely on the file cabinet with jacket and blouse. Bikini panties were all that hid Linda's treasures from my eyes. And from one specific other part of my body.