1 comments/ 47575 views/ 11 favorites Behind the Toy Store By: Bluepen451 It was well before daylight on an early January morning as the motorcyclist sped through the darkened streets of the university town on the Central California coast. The streets were wet from the night's heavy rain. She had been riding for about half an hour down from her house, high in the hills above the town, with no regard for speed limits, loving the rush of the wind and the vibration of the powerful bike between her legs. Not as good as a man between my legs, she thought, but . . . almost. She slowed as she entered the downtown area and soon turned into a dark alley, pulling the growling bike into a parking slot behind one of the old buildings backing up on the alley. A light faintly illuminated a metal door with a small sign that read Thackeray & Co., Used and Rare Books. She shut the bike down, swung her long leather-clad leg out to dismount and then stripped off her backpack and helmet, setting it on the seat of the bike while she pushed her long raven hair out of her face. Tucking the helmet under an arm and grabbing the backpack, she strode quickly to the rear door of the bookstore. An observer, had there been one at this hour, would have been struck by two things—how purposeful her strides were towards the metal door, and how well her lithe body filled out the form-fitting motorcycle leathers she was wearing. Her legs were long and trim, her hips round but obviously not carrying any excess weight, and her upper body similarly trim. There was a hint of an ample bust, but under a leather motorcycling suit, well, who can really tell for sure. She punched an access code on the keypad next to the door and heard the lock click as it released. Pushing the heavy door inwards, she reached around the doorjamb to flip on the lights and then stepped into the room. She turned quickly to her left to enter the letters L I N D Y on the alarm keypad to disarm the system, thinking as she did so that using her name for the security code was not particularly secure, but had the redeeming virtue of being something she could remember. With the lights on and the alarm system secured, Lindy turned to survey her workroom. The floor was aged, composed of worn wood planks with no sign of any finish that might have once covered them. The walls were a dull beige and sadly in need of paint. About half the room was filled with steel bookshelves and much of the remainder with boxes of recently received books awaiting her inspection and disposition, either on the shelves, in her remote warehouse on the outskirts of town, or in the dumpster in the alleyway. In a corner at the far side of the room there was a small desk with a phone and a few papers neatly stacked on it. A computer screen sat on a table adjoining the desk with a docking station for her laptop. A four-drawer filing cabinet sat against the wall to the right of the desk, leaving just room enough to slide into the chair behind the desk. An old wooden desk chair, like that a newspaper editor in a 1930's movie would have used, was pushed against the desk, waiting for its owner to pull it back and go to work, either on the desk or by rotating to the right, to access the computer screen. It made a lovely squeak when she leaned back in it. Next to the filing cabinet was an old but still functional oak armoire and beyond that a full length mirror. The armoire stored her work clothes. Motorcycle leathers wouldn't do for the portion of her day spent with the public in the bookstore that fronted on the street, and the skimpy underwear she had on beneath the leathers was even less suitable. Opposite the office equipment was the door to a tiny restroom and, alongside the door, a small table where equipment to brew coffee and tea resided along with an assortment of mismatched and generally charmless coffee mugs. Lindy strode to the armoire, parked her helmet and gloves atop it, and then stepped to the table adjoining her small desk. She set the backpack on the desk, removed her laptop, plugged it into the docking station, and bent over it long enough to type in another anemic access code to initiate the start-up sequence for the machine. Then she pulled a small bag of freshly ground coffee from the backpack, stashed the backpack beneath the desk, and walked across the workroom to the coffee station, her motorcycle boots thumping on the floor planks. Water came from the sink in the restroom. She preferred the brew of the coffee house in the next block, but they wouldn't be open for another hour, and she needed her caffeine fix now. Good coffee could wait until her assistant, Cynthia, arrived at 8:30, when the bookstore opened. Part of Cynthia's job description was to bring them each a cup from the coffee house, at Lindy's expense, of course. She maintained an account there and paid for their morning coffee on a monthly basis. Once the coffee was brewing, she strode back to the office area, passing on her way a lengthy worktable with one side abutting the wall opposite the door through which she had entered. There were boxes of books stacked on the worktable and on the floor throughout the room. "Wow, that last estate sale purchase got me a lot of books to sort through," she said, thinking aloud. "That cost some serious money. I hope there is something good in this pile of books. I hope there are some orders coming in, too," she continued, her mind wandering a bit. An additional computer sat on the worktable that was used for cataloging the purchased books as they were initially reviewed. It was the starting point for her inventory management system. The retail bookstore on the other side of the wall was really not the main portion of her business. The bulk of the business consisted of buying books in bulk from estate sales throughout the country, and then sorting through them to find items valuable enough to resell either in the bookstore or, most of the time, through her website. The only reason she still had the storefront operation was that she had inherited it from her uncle and felt an attachment to it. It didn't really make much money, given the competition from e-books, but she tried to focus on old, out-of-print titles that weren't available from Amazon and its ilk. It was a strategy that would have failed miserably in a modern shopping mall, but it sort of worked in a university town where there were still people who wanted hard copy books and were interested in old, out-of-print titles. It at least covered the salary of her assistant, and she didn't have any rent expense, since she owned the building and the rest of the block,. The leathers were beginning to get warm, so she stood in front of the mirror and began to undress. First the heavy motorcycle boots, which she parked neatly alongside the armoire. Next she unzipped the heavy jacket and shucked it off, hanging it on a hook mounted on the side of the armoire. Finally, she stripped off the leather pants, which was always a bit of a chore, as they really were form fitting. She folded them neatly and set them atop the armoire. This left her standing naked except for her bra and a pair of thong panties. The bra was a half cup that supported, but didn't really cover her medium-sized breasts, and the thong of course, covered hardly anything at all. She wasn't naked, but it was close. She stood before the mirror for several moments looking at the nearly nude image it reflected. Then she cupped her breasts with her hands and began to massage them, pushing the bra cups aside. Umm, that feels good, she thought as she watched herself play with her tits, and it's so sexy to watch myself do this in the mirror. Then she dropped one hand down to cup her sex as she continued to rub one tit with the other. She could feel warmth coming from her aroused pussy. Lindy pushed the thong aside and began to slide her fingers up and down her slit, tantalizing the opening at the bottom without entering and just grazing her rapidly swelling clit. Then she stopped herself, thinking, no, I'd better wait. I have work to do this morning, and I need to focus. She reluctantly pulled the bra cups back where they belonged and adjusted her thong Without bothering to get her work clothes from the wardrobe, she pulled out her office chair and swiveled to the right, facing the computer. It squeaked loudly as she leaned back and used her outstretched arms to open Outlook. Lindy glanced quickly at her calendar for the day, and then turned to her e-mail, which she rapidly scanned without reading in detail. Good, looks like several orders, she concluded, along with the usual quota of junk, friend-me requests, etc. She noticed an e-mail from a name she dimly remembered, but couldn't quite place. "Who is that guy?" she asked herself. By now the coffee was ready, so she rose from the computer and padded in her bare feet across the room to the pot, enjoying the feel of the old worn planks beneath her feet. The air was pleasantly cool on her bare skin. She filled a mug and took a careful sip, trying to avoid burning her tongue. Lindy wrapped the mug in her hands and walked slowly to the door alongside the worktable, which led to the front of her little bookstore. As she took a second less-cautious sip, she opened the door and walked down the three steps leading into the storefront. It was considerably darker than the fluorescent-lit back room, with only the fugitive street lighting that leaked in through the big windows in the front of the store. The darkness was fine with her, since she was still mostly naked. She just liked to wander through the little bookstore she had inherited before it opened each morning. Truth be told, she was a person who still liked her books, that is the books she bought for her own reading and pleasure, in hard copy. She walked to the counter at the front of the store, continuing to sip her coffee, but what she was really enjoying was the musty smell of the old books that filled the shelves. One of her favorite things about books, beyond their content, was the feel and the smell of the paper and the binding materials. If it ever occurred to Amazon to add old-book odor to the Kindle, her business would be done for. She leaned over the counter at the front of the bookstore sipping on her coffee, savoring the aroma of the books for several minutes. As she leaned forward, her tits spilled out of her bra. It didn't bother her that she was nearly naked. In fact, the possibility that there might be someone passing on the street who could see her if they looked carefully was giving her a bit of a thrill. She spent much of her time in and around her home up in the hills wandering about naked, so standing at the counter of a darkened bookstore in a thong and non-functional bra was hardly a change for her. Nudity was a part of her lifestyle. She took another sip of the coffee and reflected for a moment about how she came to be where she was at this moment. She had worked in the bookstore for her uncle since she was a teenager. It was a part-time job for her while she was in high school and throughout her years at undergraduate school and the two years of graduate school it took for her to get her Masters in English. She felt she had learned as much about books and authors from her uncle and the job in the bookstore as she had in her six years of college and grad school. Her relationship with her uncle had been far closer than that with her parents, who had moved to Florida shortly after she started college. After finishing her Masters, she moved out of state for a job teaching high school English, which, it turned out, she really hated. Studying the great literature of the English language was one thing, and trying to get hormone-riddled teenagers to read it and appreciate it was an entirely different matter. The unfortunate death of her uncle in a car accident saved her from an occupation she hated. He had been a life-long bachelor and had bequeathed his entire estate to her. Even before her uncle's estate was settled, Lindy quit her job and hurried back to her hometown as fast as her motorcycle could carry her. Returning to the little bookstore was like salvation after two years of purgatory in her job at the high school. She was devastated by her uncle's death. It took time to get over, but returning to the rituals of working in the bookstore provided comfort. Initially she expected that her inheritance would be limited to a money-losing bookstore in a small university town, but it turned out that she not only inherited the bookstore, but also the rest of the block (profitably rented to a variety of tenants), her uncle's lovely old house in the hills behind town with a couple of hundred acres of vineyards adjoining the house, and enough liquid securities to insure that she would never again have to try to teach sex-obsessed teenagers the virtues of Lord Byron's poetry. The rare books trade carried out from the back room was something she had developed on her own, and it had grown dramatically to the point where she had rented a warehouse on the outskirts of town to store books pending sale and shipment. The stuff downtown was mainly recent acquisitions that needed evaluation, plus, she thought with a smile, a collection of erotica that she culled from each collection purchased. It was amazing how many people with big libraries had an erotica collection included in some discreet portion of their library. She chuckled as she thought about it. Many of those she didn't sell. There were now a couple of thousand volumes stored on bookshelves in a storage room behind the space she leased to the toy store next door. Her tastes in erotica retained for her private collection were eclectic, ranging from cheaply published pulp erotica with lurid covers and even more lurid descriptions within of every sex act imaginable, to leather-bound private collections which were likely one-off privately commissioned pieces and similarly bound books of erotic pictures and drawings. Sometimes when business was slow, or she was just feeling horny, she would leave the shop to her assistant and go next door to read materials from her growing collection of erotica. She had a couch and a large overstuffed chair in the toy store storage area, which she would sit in to read her book of choice while she masturbated herself to a climax. She kept a cigar box with a couple of vibrators in it tucked away on a bookshelf behind a row of books. All in all, life was really pretty good right now. She owned a money-making business she loved, a beautiful old house in the hills with a vineyard that cash-flowed nicely, a collection of vintage erotica, and a Ducati racing bike (plus her uncle's old Ford pick-up for occasions when the Ducati wouldn't get the job done). Not married and no steady boyfriend, but that wasn't anything she was desperate for, and there were enough men in her life so that she never felt starved for sex. Turning away from her thoughts, she noticed a number of things. First she was nearing the bottom of her coffee cup; second, it was beginning to get light outside; third, her watch was telling her that her assistant would be showing up with their coffees shortly; and oh yes, her boobs had spilled out of her minimal bra while she had been leaning over the counter contemplating her good fortune. It was time to get dressed and begin work. She tucked her tits back into the bra cups and walked slowly, nearly naked, back through the bookstore, pausing occasionally to check the shelving of an item here and there and enjoying the feeling of the worn wooden floors on her bare feet and the smell of the old books. Once in the back room again, she went to the wardrobe, selected suitable clothes for the day and dressed. Her outfit consisted of a dark knee-length skirt and a white blouse, which she buttoned all the way to her throat. For shoes, she wore a pair of ballet flats. She twisted her long dark tresses up in a conservative knot atop her head. Reviewing her handiwork in the mirror, she decided that, all in all, she looked the part of a conservative librarian, which was hardly the case, but appropriate she thought, given her occupation. At the last minute she pulled up her skirt and yanked the thong panties she was wearing down to her knees, let them drop to her feet, and kicked them into the bottom of the wardrobe. This conservative dress thing could be taken too far, she thought with a smile, and she liked the feeling of the air on her nearly naked, neatly trimmed pussy. It wasn't as good as wandering naked through her vineyard with a glass of wine in hand on a warm evening after her work crews had left, but it had the same flavor to it. Having dressed for the day, she sat down before her computer and began to seriously address the e-mail she had skimmed half an hour earlier. First, there were several orders for books she had advertised on her website that needed to be filled. She forwarded each of them to the manager of her warehouse with instructions to ship the order. Payment was assured through the PayPal arrangements she used, so all she had to do was to confirm to her intermediary that the order was shipped, and PayPal would release the funds to her account. She had just finished up that chore when Cynthia came breezing in, their morning coffees in hand. "Good morning. Here's your coffee, Lindy," she said as she set the coffee on Lindy's desk. Lindy noticed that Cynthia was wearing the same outfit she had been wearing the day before. Hmm, she thought. Must have had a hot date last night. I can't criticize her though. God knows how often I have shown up here wearing the day before's clothes, often without my underwear, which was somehow lost in the course of the evening. She wanted to ask, but decided not to. Changing the subject, she looked at her watch, and said, "It's time to open. Can you get the lights on out front and unlock the door?" She successfully resisted the temptation to add, "And, who did you fuck last night?" Knowing Cynthia, the girl would eventually find an excuse to tell her about it anyway. Lindy took a sip of the coffee, thinking, oh yes, that is so much better than what I brew here, and turned back to her computer. First, she quickly dumped the junk mail. "Got to get a better spam filter," she told herself. Then she waded through some less than obvious spam, including friending requests and the like. Eventually she came to the e-mail she had noticed earlier. It was a straight up e-mail. It didn't come through her book marketing website, it didn't come through any of the social media sites she was involved with, and it didn't have the kind of suspicious subject line that suggests that someone's address book has been co-opted by a virus. It looked legitimate, but she couldn't remember who the sender was, even though his name sounded familiar. Then she remembered. He had been a graduate student, teaching a 19th Century English Literature survey class when she was a sophomore in college. Oh, I did the worst thing to him, she remembered, and it was such fun! She laughed out loud as she recalled that day. Just thinking about it, rekindled the fire in her pussy that she had tried to put aside when watching herself begin to masturbate in the mirror earlier in the morning. He was tall, with broad shoulders and long blonde hair that hung down to his shoulders and glittering blue eyes. She had thought he was very cute and really had a crush on him, but she couldn't get any response from him when she flirted with him after class. So before class one day she had shaved her pussy and put on the shortest skirt she owned with no panties. The class was taught in a medium-size lecture hall with the seats stacked above the lectern in an amphitheater arrangement. There was a desktop in front of each row of seats, but the desktop had no panel in front of it, so her legs were fully exposed to anyone below her. She took a seat a several levels up, where she thought the lecturer would have a good view of her legs, and more if she let him. Behind the Toy Store Lindy let him go through about half of his lecture and then she hiked her skirt up around her hips, and spread her legs widely so he would have a great view of her naked pussy. There was no one seated for several seats on either side of her or directly behind her, and the people below her weren't looking back, so she figured the show would be solely for the lecturer. It made her so horny to expose herself like this in public. She wanted to reach down and start playing with herself, but she resisted, wanting to see his reaction to her exposure. At first he didn't notice. He was looking to the other side of the lecture hall. Then he turned and wrote some notes on the blackboard and when he finished, he looked straight at Lindy, or more precisely, at her naked and exposed pussy. He looked long enough to confirm that, yes, he really was being flashed by the girl in the sixth row, and then he looked away, but in the meanwhile he completely lost his train of thought. He turned red and coughed a bit to cover his distraction, buying time to regroup with a drink from the water glass on the lectern, while he glanced at his notes to figure out where he was in his lecture. When he picked up his lecture again, he did his best to avoid looking at her, but he really couldn't resist. Eventually he turned towards Lindy, trying to look natural, and failing completely. He wanted desperately to take another look. Lindy could see it coming, so this time she reached down with her right hand and slid two fingers into her hot, slippery pussy. Exposing herself to the lecturer like this was so nasty. It made her so horny! She had never experienced anything this erotic. When the lecturer finally turned her way, he was a lot cooler than he had been on his first look. He just kept going with his lecture, while he stared at her as she finger-fucked herself. It seemed like it went on forever, but in reality it was probably less than a minute, and it was Lindy who eventually backed down, pulling her fingers from her pussy. But still wanting to have the last word, so to speak, she left her legs spread apart, exposing her glistening slit, and lifted her sex-coated fingers to her face so she could slowly suck her pussy juices from them, one finger at a time, while the lecturer watched. God, that had been fun! Immediately after class, she ran to the nearest ladies room, locked herself in a stall and rubbed her clit until she had a fierce orgasm. Thinking back, she concluded that the experience had been the best afternoon of her whole sophomore year in college—better than any of the half dozen guys she had fucked that semester. He still ignored her flirting after class, but it was worth it, even if she didn't achieve her original objective. Her mind returned to the present, wondering what he wanted and if he remembered who she was and what she had done to him that day? "Well, only one way to find out," she told herself as she clicked on the little envelope that would open the e-mail and read: Dear Ms. Pettigrew, I have recently returned to Cal Western as an Assistant Professor of English. I am undertaking a research project that will require access to numerous out-of-print books published in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. I have been advised by one of my colleagues that your company purchases large volumes of books from estate sales and like bulk sources and then resells those for which there may be a market. The books I require access to for my research are not the ones you would be likely to try to take to market. I don't have an adequate research budget to allow me to purchase the books of interest from you, but I was hoping we could meet and discuss an arrangement under which I could briefly access the books of interest to my research, before you dispose of them. Please call me at the phone number below and we can set up a time and a place for a meeting. Sincerely, Anders Jorgenson Assistant Professor Department of English California Western University (714) 342-5176 What the fuck, she thought? For an English professor, he certainly isn't very good at writing a letter that clearly states what he wants. Thinking about her experience with Professor Jorgenson had made her very horny. Her resolve not to masturbate had weakened considerably. She knew she shouldn't. There was work to be done. She should just keep sorting through the e-mail, but the tingle in her pussy was so distracting. She squirmed in her chair, rubbing her naked pussy lips together, but that was not going to scratch the itch that Jorgenson's e-mail had started. It was going to take more than that. I could go next door to the toy store storage area and get myself off with one of the vibrators, she thought. No, no, I've got too much work to do today, and I know that if I go over there, I'll want to take the time to look at the some of the erotic drawings in that batch of books we got in last month. Those books are really kinky. Someone had commissioned several books of pen and ink drawings of explicit sexual activities. There was straight sex, male and female gay sex, bondage, group sex, oral, anal, and even drawings of peeping toms and men and/or women engaged in exhibitionism and voyeurism in public places. She found the last group particularly arousing. Lindy told herself that she just needed to buckle down and ignore her itch so she could get through the e-mail and get started sorting the books. But the itch just wouldn't go away, so after a few minutes of abject failure to concentrate, she rolled her desk chair over in front of the mirror and sat with her legs spread and her conservative librarian's dress bunched around her waist. "I look so prim and proper from the waist up," she told herself, "and so slutty below that." It would be nice to open my blouse and play with my titties, she thought, as her fingers began to stroke her swollen pussy lips, but I can't. Someone might walk in on me, and this way I can yank my dress down before they see what I am doing. It probably wouldn't work, but she needed to tell herself it was okay to have a quickie here in her office in the middle of the morning. She knew it really wasn't okay, but she seriously needed to get herself off so she could stop thinking about the time she had exposed herself to Anders Jorgenson. Besides, exposing herself in the mirror when there was a risk someone could walk in on her just made the sex so much hotter. Her slit was really wet now and she pulled one hand up to her nose and smelled the scent of her sex, thinking how nasty this was. In a way this was better than going next door to the toy store storage area, because here there was the risk of getting caught, by a delivery man at the back door or Cynthia popping back for a coffee refill. She returned her fingers to her cunt and slid two of them into her fuck hole. "Fuck hole," she said to herself. "That's not nice at all. That's way worse than 'cunt' or 'pussy,' but to hell with the words." This felt so good, and the fear factor was getting her really hot. She looked at herself in the mirror--so slutty looking with her legs spread lewdly and her fingers, now three, dipping in and out of her cunt. "Yes, cunt," she said. "That's much better than 'fuck hole.' Dirty enough to excite me without being so crude." She stopped talking to herself and just watched herself in the mirror as she masturbated and let her mind wander back to the time she had exposed herself in Professor Jorgenson's class. Now she was getting close, so she just pushed the three fingers as far up in her cunt as she could get them and began to rub her engorged clit with her other hand. "Oh, God that felt good. So, so good, she thought. Oh fuck, I'm going to cum, she thought! She began to speak softly, "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Oh Shit. Oh fuck!" and then she groaned a long quiet low growl as her climax occurred and her pussy muscles clamped down on her fingers. Muscles in her legs, her buttocks, her stomach and her back all flexed involuntarily as the climax peaked. Then everything released and she sagged back in the chair. Mmmm. So nice, she thought, with a relaxing sigh as she sagged down into the chair. She just lay there for a moment, with her fingers still jammed in her slowly relaxing cunt. Then she slowly pulled her hips back and sat up smoothing her skirt down over her knees. She got up, walked across the room and refilled her coffee cup and returned to work, her head now cleared and ready to focus on the task at hand. Her quickie masturbation finished, Lindy was able to focus enough to move on through the rest of her morning's e-mail. Completing that chore, she stepped down into the bookstore to see how things were going for Cynthia, who was due for her break by now. The bookstore was, as she expected, quiet. There were a couple of people browsing, and Cynthia said she had made a few sales. Lindy sent her off for her break, with a request for another latte from the coffee house, if that was where Cynthia was going (which of course it was). The two browsing customers promptly left the store, so Lindy had 15 minutes to lean on the counter waiting for Cynthia to return with the coffee. Really, what could Anders Jorgenson want, she wondered? She just couldn't guess, so she decided that she would call and make an appointment with him to find out as soon as Cynthia returned. While she waited for Cynthia, she wondered if he was still as sexy and handsome as he had been all those years ago. He had the cutest butt. Oh, how she had lusted after him. Cynthia came in carrying the two coffees and bubbling on about the cute new barista at the coffee house. The two of them chatted like schoolgirls for about ten minutes about Anders Jorgenson and about the new barista, and his sexy blue eyes, cute butt, wide shoulders, and on and on. Lindy was frankly surprised she had got her coffee, as smitten as Cynthia was with the new barista. One of these days the girl was going to go out for coffee, and simply not return because she had run off to Mexico with her love of the hour. Done with her coffee, Lindy retreated to the back room and looked at the mountain of books acquired at a recent estate liquidation that needed sorting. "Okay, okay," she told herself, "I'll wade into that mess as soon as I call Anders and find out what he wants." She placed the call but was disappointed to reach his answering machine, although it did remind her what a sexy voice he had. Instead of simply asking him to come by the store, she impulsively proposed that they meet for lunch the next day at a restaurant a few blocks away. Just listening to his answering machine message reminded her again of how smitten she had been with him. That chore done, she did her best to put Anders Jorgenson and his history with her (if you could call it that) out of her mind as she began opening boxes and sorting the wheat from the chaff in some decedent's formerly-prized book collection. That task, interrupted by a brief lunch break at the vegetarian lunch counter across the street and an hour long stint minding the store while Cynthia took her lunch break, occupied the remainder of the day. When Lindy returned from her lunch, Cynthia told her that Anders had called and wanted to postpone their next day's lunch appointment until 1:00 pm. "I told him that would be fine with you," Cynthia said. "Really?" Lindy responded. "What if I had another appointment then?" She was mildly annoyed with Cynthia. "Well, first your calendar, which I can see on Outlook, was clear, and second, the way you were talking about this guy earlier, I can tell you're hot for him so you would have moved anything that would get in the way of his proposed time." "Nonsense. It's just business, and anything that happened between us was more than five years ago." Cynthia just gave her a smile that said, "You can deny it all you like, but I'm not buying it. There is a lot more to this than just business." Then she turned and walked to the front of the store, dropping the conversation and leaving Lindy a little annoyed, mostly because Cynthia was more right than wrong about her assessment. That was the problem with Cynthia. She was a flake, but a smart flake. * * * * The next morning Lindy rode the Ducati from her house in the hills in to work by 6:00 a.m., as was her custom. She stripped off her motorcycle leathers and wandered around the bookstore and the storage area behind it in bra and thong panties while she sipped her first cup of coffee, read the e-mail, and planned her day. She knew she had to spend most of her day continuing to sort through the pile of books delivered from the latest estate sale purchase, but she also had a lunch meeting at one o'clock with Anders Jorgenson. She couldn't help but think about what a sexy hunk he had been and wonder what he wanted from her now. She also smiled as she thought about the dream she had during the night about exposing her pussy to Anders seven years earlier. Now the reality of the event was that she had managed to expose her naked pussy to Anders and briefly masturbate while he was lecturing without attracting attention from the rest of the class and it had been sufficiently distracting to Anders so as to cause him to briefly forget where he was in his lecture. She had found it one of the most erotic experiences she had ever had, but, aside from her masturbating to a climax by herself in a stall in the ladies room down the hall immediately after the class, the event never went any further. But her dream went well beyond the reality. In her dream of the night before, she had not sprinted out of the classroom when class adjourned. Instead she had demurely pulled her skirt back down to avoid exposing herself to the rest of the class and simply sat quietly in her seat waiting to see what Anders would do in response to her brazen conduct. Anders remained behind the lectern shuffling his papers and ignoring her while she looked at him. Soon they were the only two people remaining in the room. When Anders finally looked up, she pulled up her skirt and spread her legs apart again for a repeat performance. He leaned forward on his lectern starring at her exposed, dripping pussy, obviously enjoying her show. Finally he spoke, "And you are Ms., . . .?" "Pettigrew," Lindy answered as she lewdly stroked her pussy lips. "Well, Miss Pettigrew, I must say, I've never had quite that kind of reaction to my lecture on Emily Dickinson," Anders said as he stepped from behind the lectern. She could see that he had a huge boner beneath his trousers. "You see," she responded, "Emily Dickinson is boring. Very boring. So I thought I would liven it up for both of us." As she spoke she slipped two fingers into her cunt and began to finger fuck herself again. (It may have been a dream, but Lindy remembered it as having been incredibly erotic—finger fucking herself as Anders walked up the steps to her row of the lecture hall). Anders was silent as he walked up the steps. As he walked along the row towards her, she swiveled in her chair so her masturbation was fully exposed to him. He was rubbing his erect prick through his trousers. "I have to agree," he said as he stopped before her, "Emily Dickenson is far from the most exciting material in English literature. Perhaps you will find my lecture on Lady Chatterley's Lover more to your liking." "I've read it," she said, "but it seemed a bit tame to me. If you are going to teach 19th century English literature, perhaps you could include some Victorian porn. The Victorians really knew how to do the BDSM stuff." As she spoke she reached out and released his belt and the button and zipper on his trousers. He let them fall to his feet without objection. She stroked his rock hard erection through his jockey shorts. The tip, peaking above the waistband of his shorts, glistened with slippery drops of precum. Lindy used a forefinger to scoop up a drop and then inserted the finger in her mouth and sucked on it as she looked up at Anders. As he watched her, he pulled his jockey shorts down and began to stroke his rigid cock. "Would you like me to suck your cock?" she asked. "Yes." "Okay, but I want you to talk dirty to me while I suck you off, and I want something better than D. H. Lawrence." "You horny little slut. Suck that cock. I want to squirt a load of cum in your mouth and you better swallow it all." "Mmmmm, that's the right idea," she said. As she spoke, Lindy reached out and put her hand on his cock. It was hot and hard like steel. She slid her palm over the head, which had leaked more glistening precum, and used it to lube his cock as she stroked it. She was using her free hand to massage his balls. "Come on, bitch," Anders said. "Suck on it." She looked up at him with feigned shock in response to his demand and then extended her tongue to caress the tip of his prick. It jumped in response. As she continued to massage his balls, she used her long tongue to lick the ridge beneath his prick and then both sides so that soon the whole shaft was coated with her saliva. Then she opened her mouth and enveloped the head of his cock while she used her tongue to caress it. She could taste the precum that was continuing to leak from the tip. It was delicious. While she was doing that she was stroking the stem of his saliva coated prick with the hand that wasn't busy massaging his balls. She pushed her head down until she felt his cock hit the back of her throat. As she pulled back, she sucked on it until she let the head pop out of her mouth. Then she repeated the process. As she sucked him, Anders kept up a monologue of meaningless filth, calling her every obscene name he knew. His dirty talk was so exciting, she thought she might cum without even having to touch herself. After several minutes of sucking, Ander's filthy talk had lapsed into groaning. He grabbed her head and a double fistful of her hair and began to force her to accelerate her pace. She knew he was close. Just then her dream took a bizarre twist. They heard one of the creaking doors to the lecture hall open as a janitor pushed a wheeled trash can and broom in to clean up the room. It was too late for Anders. While the janitor stared, Anders let out a loud groan and Lindy felt spurt after spurt of hot salty cum erupt into her mouth. With each spurt he jerked, pulling on her head and hair and ramming his cock home. Ignoring the janitor, she just kept sucking until Anders was spent. Most of it she swallowed, but feeling slutty, she saved a mouthful, and as she pulled back from Anders and sat up she let it spill from her mouth and run down her chin and the front of her blouse, not that the janitor really needed to see that to know what they had been doing. She smiled at the janitor and said, "Hi. How's your day going?" That was when she woke up. Just thinking about the dream kept her horny all morning. At 1:00 pm Lindy walked into the restaurant she had proposed, wondering if she would even recognize Anders. After all, it had been seven years. Maybe he had gotten fat (god forbid!), or grown a beard, or god knows what else that could change a man's appearance radically over a seven year period. She was more than a little ill at ease and she couldn't really put her finger on why—after all, it was Jorgenson that wanted some unspecified favor from her. Normally she was quite calm going into a business meeting. Of course, she normally hadn't been dreaming about giving the other party to the meeting a blowjob, as she had a few hours ago. She was quite horny from replaying the dream in her mind as she was walking over to the restaurant. Behind the Toy Store Lindy looked around the nearly empty restaurant without seeing someone immediately. Finally, she saw him at a table at the back of the dining room. He had grown a beard, a neatly-trimmed thick, reddish-blonde mix that matched his wheat straw blonde hair. His hair was also neatly trimmed to match the beard, abandoning the Viking look that it had given him when it hung down to his shoulders. Beyond that he looked pretty much like he had seven years ago. Same height (tall), trim broad shouldered physique, same pale blue eyes, and the same overall impact on her. Every time she had seen this man, she had wanted to drag him off to bed. Today was no exception. Lindy walked across the restaurant floor, her high heels clicking on the tiles. She had switched from her usual ballet flats to heels to make an impression on a potential business client (Okay, Cynthia was right, she still was hot for this guy and now that she had seen him again, she knew that her lust was well placed). "Professor Jorgenson?" she asked as she walked up to him. "Yes?" he said with no hint of recognition. I'm Lindy Pettigrew." He stood and shook her hand, saying, "Please sit down. I'm pleased to meet you." Apparently he didn't remember her, or wasn't prepared to admit that he did. His eyes sparkled in a very sexual way. The touch of his skin was somehow electric to her. She had wanted to touch so much more of him seven years ago, and it had taken until now to get as far as a handshake. He waived at a waitress to get menus and they exchanged pleasantries while they waited for the menus—dreadful weather for California, blah, blah, blah. They studied the menus and placed an order. Both elected iced tea rather than a glass of wine, keeping the meeting on a business level. Lindy would have been perfectly happy if it had turned into an afternoon seduction, but as far as she could tell, Professor Jorgenson did not recognize her. Once the orders were placed and the beverages served, Jorgenson turned to business. "I am sure you are wondering what it is that I want from your firm. I will be the first to admit that my e-mail was a bit cryptic." What she thought was, no shit. More like indecipherable. What she said was, "Well, I am curious." "Let me explain. First a bit of background on me. I just recently accepted a position as an Assistant Professor of English Literature here at Cal Western. It is pretty much the bottom rung of the academic ladder, as far as professors go. Better than a TA, but not much, and maybe less if the TA works for a Department Head. I received my PhD here several years ago and have been teaching at the University of North Dakota since then. More or less purgatory, compared to Cal Western." Lindy smiled. "But now you're back. What is your area of focus? I hope they haven't got you teaching introductory literature survey classes to undergraduates." She wondered if the hint would trigger a memory for him of the survey course he had taught with the little tart in the sixth row. "Well, there is a bit of that, of course," he said, missing the point of her allusion. "It goes with being at the bottom of the ladder. But they have given me some time for a bit of research and writing, and I have rounded up a small grant from the National Endowment for the Arts to fund my research, at a very modest level. That's where your firm comes in." "Well, how can I help?" "As I said in my e-mail, I understand that you purchase books in bulk from estate sales and then resell those for which there is a market through the Internet?" "Yes, and I also own a small bookstore specializing in used and rare books. It's on Shannon, just below Main Street. You may remember it from when you were here before. I inherited it from my uncle. But you are essentially correct. The bulk of my business consists of searching through piles of books obtained in bulk to find those that can be readily resold. It actually turns out to be quite profitable, but you have to know what you are looking for. That's where my Masters Degree in English from Cal Western comes in." "Oh, I didn't realize that you had studied here. When did you graduate?" So, he doesn't remember me, Lindy thought. I wonder what the hell he wants. He is sure beating around the bush about it. Responding to his question she said, "About four years ago. I left the state to teach English at the high school level for a couple of years. Absolutely hated it. Then my uncle, who had owned the bookstore for decades, passed away, and I inherited it. The book trading business is something I added to it over the last couple of years." "Yes, well I suppose that teaching high school students would be even worse than teaching undergraduates, which has its problems." He then launched into a description of the failings of his undergraduate students. He didn't include horny female students who exposed themselves to him in his parade of horrors. What's he stalling for, Lindy wondered as the food was served. Repeating herself, she said, "What can I do to help you?" He chewed slowly, very slowly, on a mouthful of food and then said, "Let me tell you about my research." Another stall, Lindy thought. He's obviously uncomfortable about something. Her mind had been drifting while he had gone through his spiel about the difficulties of teaching undergraduates, indulging in a brief fantasy about how hot it would be to be sitting in an empty restaurant with her legs spread widely and his face smashed against her sex while she held him firmly in place to insure he didn't stop munching on her pussy. As her mind snapped back to reality she heard him say, "I have been working with a couple of people in the computer science field and we have developed a piece of software that will analyze the word choices, syntax, grammar, and overall style of any piece of writing. Give me a thousand-word sample from each of any two books, short stories, or essays and I can tell you, with 98 percent certainty, whether they were both written by the same author. We tried it on the winning pieces in twenty years worth of the Bad Hemingway clone contest last year and it rejected every one of the winners when compared with something actually written by Hemingway." "Have you tried it the other way?" she asked. "What happens when you compare two pieces that you know where written by the same author?" "Works just the same," he said. "Give me two, thousand-word samples written by the same author, and I will reach the correct conclusion, 98% of the time. Give me two samples written by different known authors and I can tell you they had different authors. We tried it on dozens of authors, dating back to the beginning of the 19th century. I have a data bank on about two hundred authors from the late 19th and early 20th centuries. I can take an unknown and run it through the computer, and it will tell me which of my known authors wrote it or that none of them did." He was very excited about his software. "Wow!" she said, thinking, "He is still stalling. What the hell does he want?" "So how does this relate to me?" she asked. "Well," he said, looking more than a little uncomfortable. "I have moved on to the second stage of my research, which involves using the software to prove a hypothesis." "I see, and what is your hypothesis?" This was like pulling teeth, and he looked almost as uncomfortable as he had when she had flashed him seven years ago. Thinking about that was making her pussy wet. "Well," he went on, "as you know, most authors, just like artists and performers, don't usually strike it rich on day one. In fact they often labor in obscurity and poverty for years until some publishing house picks up their work." "True," she said. "Like they say, 'Don't give up your day job'." Still stalling, she thought. He is obviously uncomfortable about something. He's so cute when he's squirming. "Well, I am interested in using my software to demonstrate that certain publications written under a pen name or not attributed at all, were written by a subsequently famous author." He paused and then continued. "For example, certain pieces of Ann Rice's early work were published under the names Anne Rampling and A. N. Roquelaure. Now everyone knows about that, because Ms. Rice has chosen to disclose it, but I suspect that many famous authors may have chosen not to disclose their early works." Bingo, Lindy thought. He wants access to the smut. No wonder he has been beating around the bush! "Yes," she said, encouraging him to go on. "Now," he continued. "I am sure that there are significant quantities of material that you acquire that winds up in the dumpster as unsalable." "Yes," she agreed, telling herself, "but it's not the smut. There is always a market for smut, and then there is of course my private collection behind the toy store." "Well . . ." he said with a long pause, my thesis is that one thing that any number of competent, but not yet successful writers may have written, to keep the ship afloat, so to speak, was . . . erotica." There, he finally said it. God, he was uncomfortable. She smiled in spite of herself and then, just to pull his chain, she said, "Really? So F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote porn?" "Yes, yes," he said, his excitement rising to the bait she had thrown out. "What I am trying to do is to get access to vintage porn so I can compare it to the computer profiles I have established for successful writers of the same or a slightly subsequent era to provide attribution to them. I have been assuming that there is always a certain amount of erotica in the major book collections you buy and that it is part of the material you discard as unmarketable." "And you actually got someone to fund this research?" "Well, you know how the National Endowment for the Arts is. They will fund anything. But really this could be important research. Imagine finding whole new additions to the cannon of Fitzgerald, or Dos Pasos, or Hemingway, or even Mark Twain. My problem, of course, is that I don't have a big enough grant to go and buy this material from the smut dealers who trade in it." She smiled again. "There really are people who specialize in vintage smut?" she asked, pulling his chain a bit, while she thought about how many of them were among her good customers. "Oh yes," he said. "Let me see if I have this straight," she said. "You want me to give you the erotica I find as I sort through the various bulk book buys I make?" He squirmed when she put it bluntly, "Uh, yes, assuming, of course, it is just going in the dumpster anyway." God he was so cute and sexy. He was really making her hot and she hated to burst his bubble, but business was business. "Well Anders, I need to explain some things to you about my business. First you are right. Most big book collections contain a small but significant percentage of erotica. Second, you are also correct, that no one has ever heard of any of those authors, except, of course for that well known Victorian, 'Anonymous'." They both chuckled at the reference. "There is a fair amount of it that has no publication data at all—not even an author identification. I have always assumed that material was custom written for a specific customer. Possibly by one of your starving authors, although I never really thought about that possibility before." "Now, here's where your assumption is wrong," she continued. "I don't throw it in the dumpster. There is a very nice market for that material, either with the dealers you are aware of or direct to individuals through my Internet site." "Oh," he said, recognizing the problem. He was silent and looked disappointed. She sipped her coffee in silence as she thought. She hadn't yet told him about her private collection behind the toy store. Finally she said, "But I may be able to help you." He looked at her with hope, but then said, "I can't afford to pay you what the dealers pay for the material." "I know that," she said, "but I have, how shall I put it, a small private collection of material that I have chosen from time to time to retain rather than remarket." "How small?" he asked. "Oh, it's a couple of thousand volumes," she responded. "Really!" he said, visibly excited, "And you would let me have access to your collection? I assure you that all I would do is scan a few pages from any book that seemed promising. It would be totally non-destructive." Shit, she thought! Why did I bring this up before I had decided what I wanted to ask for in return? What I really want is to fuck him, but I don't think I have the cojones to ask him straight out for that. Hmmm. What can I ask for? "Let me see if I understand this, Anders. Your objective is to prove through your computer program that some of the erotica I own was written by Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Dos Pasos, Twain, Sinclair, Melville, or some other famous author included in your data base?" "Uh, . . . right." "And you plan to publish those conclusions, if you are able to reach them?" "Absolutely. You know what they say about academia. It's publish or perish." "Well, you won't perish if you pull this off," she said, as she thought, and I will get rich selling the smut he identifies as having a famous author. Imagine the price I could get for first edition smut from F. Scott Fitzgerald. And, even if he finds nothing, I'll have him in my toy store storage room reading erotica for weeks. Somehow or other I'll get to fuck him as a part of this deal. Finally she said, "Okay, I'll let you look at it, but you have to let me see your conclusions and use them to support my resale of the material." "Fair enough," he said, looking relieved. They agreed that he would come to Thackeray & Co. the next afternoon to take a look at her collection. As they concluded their business, Anders reached for the check saying, "The National Endowment for the Arts, will buy this lunch." Lindy laughed. Free lunch for agreeing to loan smut to a government-sponsored research program. The world is a strange place. She could think of some conservative legislators who would be apoplectic if they had listened in on this conversation. * * * * * When Cynthia came in the next morning her first statement was, "Well, how did your lunch with Professor Jorgenson go yesterday. Did you fuck him? Do you have a date with him?" Cynthia could be very crude sometimes, and she had a one-track mind that always focused on sex. She was standing, holding the two morning cups of coffee high in the air, as though keeping them as ransom until Lindy told her a story she was dying to hear. "Cynthia!" Lindy responded, with feigned anger (She knew better than to expect anything different than Cynthia's comments. It's just who she was.). "No, I didn't fuck him. It was a business lunch, not a date, and no, I don't have a date with him for today or any time in the future. It's purely business." Mostly true, she thought. "Oh," Cynthia said with disappointment. "Does that mean he is not as hot as he used to be?" "No!" "Oh, so he's still really hot?" Cynthia asked, cleverly turning Lindy's response against her. "I mean that whether he is hot or not is not relevant. This is about books and, hopefully, money." Another half-truth. "Oh," Cynthia said pretending to understand something that Lindy knew was totally unintelligible to her. "Well," she said, "is he hot or not?" Lindy laughed giving up on Cynthia. "Yes, yes. He's still hot, maybe even sexier than he was seven years ago. He's grown a beard. It's a thick mixture of red and blonde, but trimmed very neatly just like his blonde hair. He looks very professorial now. He used to look like a Viking." "Oh, good. Then keep me posted on how it goes," Cynthia said, as she handed Lindy her morning coffee. The answer was close enough to what Cynthia was looking for. She was willing to stop holding the coffee as a hostage. "Actually," Lindy said, "he will be here at five thirty tonight to look at the books in the toy store storage area, so if you want to see him, all you have to do is work late." "What! He wants to see those books? Those are the dirty books, right?" "That is what he wants to see," Lindy confirmed. "He thinks some of them may have been written by famous authors." "You two are made for each other," Cyndi said. "You both love dirty books. You can read them to each other and then screw." That was more or less what Lindy had in mind, but she wasn't going to admit it to Cynthia. "I hope you're not going to tell me you don't like dirty books? "Of course not. Everyone likes dirty books, don't they? But you've never let me see what you have stored behind the toy store." "Well, maybe someday, if you're a good girl. Now take your coffee and go open the bookstore. I'm sure there's a line of customers waiting at the door." "Yeah, right," Cynthia laughed as she turned and walked towards the door leading to the bookstore. As she reached the door she turned and, returning to the subject of Anders, said, "I'd love to hang around and see this stud tonight, but I have a date with the new barista at 5:30, so it will have to be some other time." Lindy laughed as Cynthia walked through the door. She spent most of the day sorting through the latest shipment of books, but she had to admit she wasn't giving the task the attention it deserved. She couldn't get her mind off Anders. She was just as obsessed with his tall lean frame, his blonde hair and his twinkling blue eyes now as she had been seven years ago, when she had flashed him in his survey class. The addition of his neatly trimmed red and blonde beard just made it worse, or better, depending on how you looked at it, and she looked at it both ways at least fifty times during the day. By the end of the day, Lindy had come around to Cynthia's point of view. Business be damned! She really wanted to fuck this guy. Having reached that conclusion, she spent a goodly part of the afternoon fanaticizing about how she was going to seduce him. By four she had developed a plan and began to execute the first steps by adjusting her wardrobe appropriately. She would still look like a prim and proper librarian when Anders arrived, but she was not going to be wearing a bra or panties, and the ballet flats would be replaced by the heels she had worn the day before. The rest of the plan was a lot more vague. She would just have to play that part by ear. Not really much of a plan, but it was the best she could do given her rapidly diminishing ability to concentrate on anything other than the possibility of fucking Anders. Cynthia left at 5:00, and Lindy moved to the front of the bookstore, waiting for Anders to show up. She really didn't believe she could seduce him today, but she was so fucking horny, she couldn't think about much of anything else. She was surprised that her juices weren't running down her legs from her naked pussy. Anders walked in the front door of the bookstore, promptly at 5:30, wearing tan slacks and a tweed sports coat. He had an open collared shirt beneath the sports coat—the first time she had ever seen him without a necktie. God, she thought. He is so fucking sexy! "Good afternoon, Ms. Pettigrew," he said. "Thank you for staying open late to accommodate me. I had a busy day today, but I wanted to get a look at your collection so I can get started on the project." "Please, make it Lindy," she said with a smile. Lindy had a smile that could light up a room when she chose to use it. He smiled and his eyes twinkled. "Of course, Lindy." "The materials you are interested are in a back room. Let me close up the store and I'll take you there." He wandered around the store looking casually at the books on the shelves while she locked the doors, hung out the closed sign, and shut off the lights. She was so obsessed with him that her nipples were like rocks poking out through the thin fabric of her blouse. She hoped he would notice them.