Chain of Fantasies

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Sitting on the frayed edge of downtown, Hamitor’s Books is a paradox of commerce. As much as being a bookstore, it is an archive, warehouse, library and dustbin/mold repository of record proportions. Urban sophisticates – if they are even brave enough to venture into the neighborhood – will likely flee moments after breaching the door; defeated in their shallow expectations of finding a trendy mix of best sellers, coffee table compilations, the latest Vanity Fair and a nouveau chic espresso café in which to see and be seen. For the student with less than 24 hours before the deadline on an assigned book report, it’s a nightmare of frantic searching that might reward the procrastinator with the only remaining copy in town of some obscure work by Edward Bulwar Lytton. But for the browser with plenty of time to spare, it can be nirvana. It’s a paradise of volumes long out of print, each one with a story more obscure and more fascinating than the other. It’s very presence as an active (albeit quiet) enterprise defies the prognostications of conventional business experts who thrive on terms like cash flow and return on investment. It’s a family business that exists on whim as much as mission, with more than a few secrets tucked away amongst the volumes.

With her stylish long dress and tweed jacket, Linda probably looked out of place as she stepped off the bus in front of Hamitor’s. Had the sidewalk vagrant resting against the wall been paying attention, he would have been treated to a brief but satisfying peak of her long, bare leg revealed courtesy of the slit skirt. With full dark hair, cascading below the shoulders and dark brown eyes, she could boast of a classic beauty that seemed all the more appropriate for a legal secretary. Linda had stepped off this bus hundreds of times; she was a regular visitor to the store, even to the point of being recognized by Elsie, the current overseer of the cash register. Time and income limited her outings to about one lunch hour per week, but each visit tended to yield a gem of some kind and she had no expectation of ever running out of new shelves to browse or bargains to discover.

She passed through the doors, receiving a cheery nod from Elsie, and set off on her exploration, delighting in the temporary respite from the regimentation of her job in the corporate legal office. Sometimes, she would roam the aisles of the three floor facility with a vaguely defined goal in mind; but today was a day for wandering and she elected to begin on the top floor, working her way down in the event that she lose track of time. At least that way, she’d be closer to the door when the image of her priggish (and younger) boss interrupted her reverie with a mental reminder to return to the real world.

She never paused to consider what it was that drew her to that particular nook on the third floor, totally unaware that a magnet of sensuality had already focused on her.

It was a nondescript book, slim in size, perhaps no more than 150 pages. Of indeterminate age, but obviously very old, it almost seemed to leap into her hand as she neared it, enticed by the embossed gold title “Chain of Fantasies.” The it suggested something dark and kinky, albeit from the Victorian era. Upon opening it’s pages, she was surprised to discover something more akin to a sexual how-to, written and illustrated for a readership long since departed to age and death. The chapter entitled “The Passing Kiss” particularly entranced her. Its picture of a couple in ardent, yet fully clothed embrace seemed vaguely familiar for reasons she couldn’t define. The writing reflected a style of erotica long since abandoned, one that was simultaneously chaste and sensuous.

She might have lost herself in the story had she not become aware of the nearness of another person. He was attractive, with a hint of mystery. She noted the trim build and short blonde hair framing a face highlighted by deep, promising eyes. “Pardon me,” she mumbled as she moved to allow him passage down the aisle. “Not a problem at all” he replied with just the twinge of Midwestern accent. He slipped past, making just a little too much contact between his butt and her bottom, resulting in a comic cascade of dropped personal belongings on both their parts.

They knelt down to retrieve things, simultaneously touching the book. Describing the incident to her bemused roommate later that evening, she said, “an almost electric charge traveled up my arm. It was if I was about to be propelled into the story I was reading, as if the woman in the book was me and her lover this perfect stranger that I had just encountered.” His reaction suggested a similar effect on him and as their eyes met the book dropped again to the floor with no further awareness from either man or woman. His hand moved slowly to her cheek. In silent confirmation her lips pursed and moved closer to his, her eyes closing while her mind raced with thoughts not thoroughly consistent with lunch hours in a bookstore.

The kiss began gently enough, but grew manisa escort in urgency and passion. His hand ran through her hair, drawing her face to his as their tongues began to entwine and dance together. They rose as one, her arms around his shoulders, her head cradled by his right hand with the left encircling her waist. It was more than an exchange of kisses supported by an embrace; it was mutual hunger, fed with passion and nourished with body heat. “Damn that belt!” she though as her hand wrestled with the leather around his waist. The swelling below it suggested a more than clear desire on his part. But he seemed less interested in relieving his obvious physical discomfort than in placing his lips on whatever patch of skin they could reach.

His kisses began to cover her neck, touching nerves she had previously been unaware of. His hands raced his mouth, moving from her shoulders to her hips and back to her breasts. A fleeting moment of lucidity left Linda uttering a silent prayer of gratitude to the Victoria’s Secret Catalog (specifically the royal blue bra and panties set on page 5). His face was burying itself in the deep vee of her neckline now, his hands caressing and kneading the globes positioned so nicely within Victoria’s finest satin. As testament to the flexibility and give of things, his fingers had little trouble finding her nipples, growing more firm and attentive by the moment. With the first pinch, a moan began from deep within her; escaping with her breath, loud enough to generate notice by anyone on the third floor.

“Not a word,” he hissed, “say nothing unless it adds to the moment!” Whether her assent was in the form of a clear yes, or intake of breath, the meaning was clear and she threw her head back, surrendering what little reserve she had left. She no longer knew whether she was guiding him, or whether he was simply having her. It didn’t matter; she was willing at this point to give him what ever he wanted.

He knelt down on one knee, kissing her blouse and caressing her calf. Smiling with the realization of the slit in her skirt, he lifted her thigh placing her now bare foot on his leg. His hands massaged her ass, and again thoughts of appreciation to the Queen of Catalogs passed through her consciousness. The bikini panties had just enough stretch to allow him access, although they had long since become soaked with her juices. This only spurred him on, as silently validating for him as the bulge within his pants had been for her. He obviously loved the aroma and relished in the wetness. His mouth had moved from kissing to licking, fervently lapping and devouring her private juices.

The skirt was now open to the waist, buttons had come undone in a way that was a mystery to both. Neither lover cared by now about the “how” of things, only with the touch of lips and tongue on labia and clitoris. His face worshiped the mound of neatly trimmed hair above her pussy. His tongue split her pussy lips with the urgency of a hungry cock. His fingers spread her wider and wider; giving more intimate access to her clit while his nose tickled her pubic hair.

Her breaths became shorter and shorter, his tongue action quicker, punctuated at times with a deep, longing suck that drew her clit into his mouth for what seemed an eternity of pleasure. One finger slipped easily into her drenched love box; a second joined it with the ease. Three fingers now, she began to feel stretched, to feel full. And somehow she heard her voice quietly moan “more,” shortly before a fourth finger worked it’s way into a pussy that was developing a mind of it’s own. She’d never been filled like this, never this overwhelmed and she could feel the orgasm as it formed and began to envelop itself over her body. The crowning touch occurred when his thumb found room below his tongue to exert just the right amount of pressure on her clit, and she abandoned herself to a cum that inundated her.

Collapsing into his arms, she fought disparate, unconnected questions of love (“who is he?”), lust (“what/when next?), career (“omigod, what time is it?”) and appearance (“how many wet spots are there, and can anyone see them?”). Without another word, he kissed her lips, the sheen of her vaginal juices still adorning his cheeks and chin, and vanished somewhere in the jungle of bookshelves. She was too utterly exhausted to follow.

A brief examination of her clothing, followed by a quick rearrangement ended with the sighting of the “Chain of Fantasies” book, as it lay open on the floor where it had been dropped. It was open to a new page now, the same story, but a new page, one that featured the woman with her skirts open, leg elevated and foot resting on his thigh, the obvious recipient of her lover’s most ardent oral attentions!

A glance at her watch pushed the similarities between book and the encounter to the back of her mind, as she gathered up her things and rushed to leave. Elsie smiled demurely as she rang up the purchase price of the book. The look in her eyes suggested that she was familiar with its contents, and was no longer suspicious about the nature of the sounds from the third floor. The squeak of the bus as it jolted to a stop just outside the door, spurred Linda on, denying her the opportunity to question the matter any further.

She practically leapt onto the bus, moments before it was to resume its route, collapsing into the only available seat, one toward the rear. As it pulled away from Hamitor’s, her thoughts drifted back to the feelings created by his tongue and fingers, and the wetness that remained between her legs. She almost missed her stop, realizing at the last moment that a number of people had already left the bus and that the doors were about to close. Jumping up, with visions of the twenty-something stuffed shirt preparing his tardiness lecture on her mind, she lunged for the door. Within a moment she was standing on the sidewalk, conducting one last inspection and rearrangement of her rumpled clothes, watching the bus drive away… with her newly purchased volume of “Chain of Fantasies” still sitting on the seat she had occupied.

For the remaining afternoon, the bus followed its route with no passengers taking the seat near the rear. The first to encounter the book was an older woman, who noted the word “Fantasies” in the title, picked it up with the thought that it might be of interest to her grandchildren. That interest was short-lived as soon as she opened it to the page that bore a prurient picture of two elderly lovers reclining naked together. “Filth!” she exclaimed as she threw it on the floor before she had the opportunity to note that the male bore a striking resemblance to her next door neighbor, Mr. Atchison.

The book remained on the floor, undisturbed until late in the afternoon as one by one other seats were filled by weary commuters on their trips homeward. Jeff was finished for the day, heading home to his wife and daughter. Thoughts of work in the insurance office gradually became replaced with musings on the coming weekend. He’d been looking forward to this weekend for some time as it presented something on the order of a marital vacation. Beth and Amanda had already packed the SUV and at this moment were already well down the interstate on their way to Amanda’s baton twirling workshop. It was too good to resist! He could crank up the stereo with Beethoven and Tchaikovsky and not have to watch Beth’s eyes glaze over in boredom. Nor would he have to deal with the look of a twelve-year-old being subjected to music more than 20 minutes old. He was beginning to realize the wealth of possibilities open to him with uncontested access to the VCR and the local video store when his foot made contact with something under the seat in front of him.

Leaning down, he discovered the book – a bit more scuffed now than it had been in its previous resting place at Hamitor’s – but basically none the worse for wear. He offered it to the guy in front, on the assumption that it belonged to him. The young man’s reaction left little question about his potential ownership, not to mention his basic willingness to even pick up a book with the word fantasy in it’s title. Being a naturally curious soul, he began to leaf through it. “Hot stuff!” he thought as he viewed a picture of the Victorian couple engaged in some spirited vertical pleasure. And the text that accompanied the picture of the elderly couple gave him an idea or two that had him anticipating retirement like never before.

He admired the illustration for the “Hours of Bliss” story, for more than a few moments, when his reverie was interrupted with another stop. Looking out the window, Jeff wondered how all of the people lined up for the bus would ever make it on. The question was answered for him as the driver closed the doors, and accelerated away from the curb leaving five very unhappy riders to wait for the next bus. The brisk departure also created some ill will within the vehicle as the last person to board (a man of substantial girth) was thrown against a line of standees stretching down the aisle. The resulting domino effect was not pretty, except for the final one to fall – a twentyish woman with short blonde hair and the type of body that makes thirty-something men rent X-rated movies or read fantasy books – and she fell right into Jeff’s lap.

Her fall ended with a hand squarely between his legs, with proximity to his privates that can make a divorce lawyer upgrade his next auto to Corinthian leather interior. Her lips were mere inches away from his; any closer and he would have had his face fanned by the lustrous eyelashes that flashed over her lovely blue eyes. Never at a loss for a smartass remark, Jeff couldn’t resist, “I’ll give you just one hour to move you hand away from there. Her response was to pucker up and plant a lingering kiss on him, followed by “baby, if you can last an hour, what are we doing on this bus?” Before things got too out of hand in front of too many witnesses, they both began laughing and rearranging themselves into more conventional positions. The teenager that had been sharing the seat with Jeff graciously offered the seat to the blonde. Whether he did so to be gallant or to have a better position from which to study the ample cleavage of her tank top is debatable. The end result though featured Jeff sitting next to a sexy woman, who interestingly enough seemed more than content to leave her hand on his thigh.

Her name was Cammie and she was one of those dot com survivors making an itinerant living as a travelling consultant. Somehow they were hitting it off better than Jeff had any reason to expect, evident the feminine hand that had shifted from resting on his thigh to lightly stroking it. The weekend was getting off to a spectacular start. Jeff forgot about the turn of the century pillow book he’d just discovered and settled back to enjoy the moment. After fifteen of the most enjoyable minutes he’d ever spent on public transportation, he decided to throw caution to the wind. “Now what makes you think that an hour’s worth of endurance is such a feat,” he asked with a mildly lecherous grin? She responded not with a word, but by cupping his thoroughly swollen balls in her hand and offering a tongue-tooled tonsillectomy. Breaking away after a moment, she checked his crotch for signs of any telltale emissions. Satisfied that premature ejaculation was not an imminent danger, she finally said “I’m only one stop away and there’s only one way to find out.”

Had the teenage male been listening to them, instead of the hip hop pulsating in his earphones, he might have signaled thumbs up to Jeff as they rose to exit the bus. The book provided a convenient cover to disguise the rampant hard-on that was tenting his pants. As they stepped down to the sidewalk, she practically melted into his arms for a more lingering tongue dance, highlighted by a full body press that practically begged the question “are they real or fake?” With her arm in his, she led him across the parking lot and to the pricey residence hotel that was her current base of operations. “Itinerant living?” He began to regret never taking any HTML classes when he realized that the $800 dollar a week hotel room was part of the “and expenses” portion of her professional fee. It offered all the comforts of home, if the comforts of home included a blonde hottie who was already slipping off her skirt to the accompaniment of a Carly Simon CD.

“Now sit there and let me take care of things” she whispered as she lifted the tank top over her head. Strangely enough, she looked more demure partially undressed than she did when she first ventured onto the bus. The miniskirt and tank top had covered a low cut sports bra and simple cotton bikini panties. But the body within was as enticing as ever, even more so with Carly crooning in the background and a luxurious hotel room all to themselves. Kneeling in front of him, she interrupted her striptease by reaching for his belt and unfastening his slacks. The waistband of his briefs was no match for the combined assault of his swollen cock and her lithe fingers. His penis celebrated the end of its confinement with a triumphant throb that brought a knowing smile to her face. “Even if it’s only thirty minutes, I think you’re going to be worth it” she breathed. Deep within the logical recesses of his mind, Jeff began to assemble a list of home improvement projects, actuarial charts, weather prognostications… anything that might enable him to delay the inevitable release of his sperm.

As she massaged and cuddled his member, he finished the removal of his pants and briefs; then ever so politely leaned forward to remove the sports bra from her body. Her breasts reacted to their release with the same enthusiasm of his cock, the nipples already red and perky with desire. And as he admired their shape, Cammie leant forward, sucking his cock fully into her mouth as she simultaneously shed herself of the cotton bikini bottom. The words “oh God!” escaped his mouth and he labored to study the pattern of the ceiling. Slowly she brought her lips back to the tip, kissing it ever so lightly before looking back at his face. “Mmmmmm… you’re off to a fine start, I know of at least three guys that would have spunked and retired by now.” Had either of them the ability to notice, they would have realized that the “Chain of Fantasies” book – resting where it landed on the floor shortly after they entered the room — had grown by three pages since their exit from the bus.

It was clear that Cammie performed fellatio with enthusiasm, the difference between her technique and that of his wife Beth could not have been greater. He experienced a slight pang of guilt at the realization that he had already performed a mental comparison, but that was quickly lost in the heat of the moment. The long languid strokes of the tongue, the way she sucked each ball wholly into her mouth one by one, transported him to a happy place that would live on in many a meditative moment for years and years. The way that she was pacing things suggested that in spite of her sixty-minute challenge, she was under no compulsion to hurry things.

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