The Bookstore 


One week later.  Another Saturday.    Again I found myself drawn 
to this store.    This time I was dressing casual sexy.  Still white 
socks and sneakers, but a denim skirt.   A white blouse.    Lacy 
white bra and panties.   A denim vest.   There was a nip in the 
autumn air.

I entered the store.   He looked up and locked eyes with me and 
smiled knowingly, but didn't say anything.   And I felt a tingle 
down below.   There was one other person in the store.    I again 
browsed around, pretending to have business in the various 
sections, but really I was just biding time until I was the only one 
in the store and I could make my way to the counter.    I'd resolved 
I was going to offer him 50 dollars for the book.   He could always 
say no.    I bit my lip and thought about how I would broach the 
subject.    I can't just go up and blurt out, "Will you take 50 bucks 
for the sex book?"    Maybe I'll start off asking about some other 
obscure book I'm looking for.    Then, as I'm about to turn to go, 
I'll look in the case again, and say, "Oh, just curious, would you be 
willing to take less than the sticker price for that John Norman 
book?"    If so, I'd suggest 50 dollars.  What if he countered with 
75 dollars?     I could always say I'd think about it.   I worked out 
this whole conversation in my head, what I would say to various 
counteroffers, or what I would say if he wouldn't budge on the 
$150.  "Ok, thanks! Have a good day!", and head for the door.   
When he saw what a shrewd customer I was, he would call out, 
"No, wait, stop!  You're more than a match for me!   I'll give it to 
you for $50!  Please, without that, I'm going to have to close the 
store, I can't pay the rent this month!"   Ok, admittedly, this wasn't 
a likely scenario.     I sat there a few more minutes in the back, 
pretending to scan for a title.  I couldn't even have told you what 
section this was (as it turned out, Philosophy).   I noticed there was 
a door in the back of the store, slightly ajar, leading to an office.  
The light was on in there, and I could see filing cabinets, and more 
books stacked, less tidily than out front.  The inner sanctum.

Finally, I heard him exchange words with the other customer 
(probably just "goodbye!", though I couldn't really hear from back 
here), and then the tinkle of the bell as the man left.     Now I was 
alone in the store with the owner.  Good, that last customer hadn't 
bought anything.   Maybe he'll want to make a sale before he 
closes up; it was now after 4:45pm, and he closed at 5pm.

I made my way to the front of the store, and engaged in small talk.  
Did he know when the new volume by such-and-such an author 
was coming out?    A safe topic, since he didn't carry new books.  
He was unlikely to produce it and expect me to buy it then and 
there.  Finally I glanced in the case.   My book was still there.   But 
something looked different about the sticker.    I looked closer, 
holding my breath, and there was a tag atop the sticker that I had to 
lean closer to read.  It said, "ON HOLD."    I felt this jolt, the way 
you feel when you notice you just sped by a police car and the 
officer is outside the vehicle pointing a radar gun at you.   

"On hold?" I said, almost involuntarily.

He looked at me appraisingly.   "Yes, someone is interested in that 
book, so I'm holding it for them."

"Oh, ok."   I felt a wave of disappointment, and he could probably 
hear it in my voice.    I guess someone had called up and asked 
about that book, or maybe told him they were thinking about 
buying that book.  But then, I thought, that wasn't actually what he 
said.

He looked at me for a moment, and then seemed to come to a 
decision.    "I'm going to go out on a limb here," he said.   "You've 
been in here the last three weeks.     I think you really want this 
book.   And I think the subject matter intrigues you.  But you don't 
want to pay this price."   He looked me in the eyes, and again I felt 
transparent.   The moment for denial came and went.   I could say, 
"Uh, I don't know what you mean."      I stayed silent and looked 
at him.

"I think maybe we can work something out."  He looked me in the 
eye.    I felt a wave of warmth pass through me, and I could feel a 
flood of dampness down below.  Hey, I was tingly even before I 
walked up the stairs.    And again I had that feeling that he knew 
exactly the effect his words were having on me.

"What what did you have in mind?" I stammered back in just 
slightly above a whisper.   I felt a blush coming on.     A wild wind 
went through me; I knew there was nobody else in the store, but I 
felt the urge to check, to make sure nobody was back in the stacks 
overhearing us.      But we were alone; nobody could hear us, I told 
myself firmly.

"You're interested in a book about Dominance-Submission Role-
play.     I've got a role-play for you."

I looked at him expectantly.

"I'll be the older Dom who runs a bookstore.     You're the young 
submissive who'll do anything to get this book."     His gaze was 
steady on me.

I wet my lips with my tongue, staring back at him.   I could still 
leave now.     I could just leave, say "No thank you" politely, and 
depart.   Or I could laugh it off, and act like he had been joking 
too.  Say, "For a minute, I thought you were serious."   Or I could 
be a smart-ass and say, "In your dreams, you dirty old man!"   Or I 
could just turn right now and walk out that door without saying 
anything, with a tingle of bells, and never look back, never come 
here again. Or I could say:

"Ok."   I said it quietly, but looked him straight in the eyes.

"Ok, SIR." He said mildly.

I smiled a little bit, but then said, "Ok, Sir."  You could hear the 
capitalization in my voice. 

"I want you to go into the bathroom there around the corner.  
Remove your panties.    Come back and set them on the counter."

My heart was beating fast, and I could feel a weird little dizziness.   
And the warmth and wetness from my pussy.   I stared at him for a 
few seconds more, and then wheeled and walked into the alcove.

Between two narrow rows of books, and then a right into the 
bathroom.   The door was slightly ajar.   I turned on the light and 
walked in.    Shut the door behind me.   Reached to turn the latch 
automatically, but my hand stopped just short of touching the 
knob.     The bathroom was clean and tidy.   The tiles were a little 
worse for wear.   There was a toilet, a sink.  A plunger in the 
corner.  The walls were painted a lime color.    There was a stack 
of paper towels on a shelf next to the sink, not a dispenser.   A 
pump bottle of antibacterial soap.    A watermark spot on the sink 
from a steady drip, now fixed.    Way up in one corner of the 
ceiling was the remains of a spider web, the only real sign of 
untidiness.  No sign of the spider.   The owner kept it clean, but he 
probably never noticed this.     Come into my parlor, said the 
spider to the fly.    Was I really going to go through with this?    I 
looked at myself in the mirror.

I took my small purse off, and hung it on the doorknob.  And then I 
crouched slightly, reached up under my skirt, and pulled my 
panties down.  Stepped out of first one leg, then the other.      
There.  Straightened up, and looked myself in the mirror again.   
Still looked the same.   A woman in a skirt and a denim jacket.   
The skirt wasn't short; unless there was a Marilyn Monroe grate 
around to blow it up (and it would have to try extra hard with a 
heavier denim skirt), I wasn't likely to be exposed walking down 
the street.   But I still had to go back into the store proper and hand 
this guy my panties.

I could do this.   This wasn't even that different from something 
another Dom guy had me do once; in a restaurant he had me do a 
similar thing, go into the restroom and remove my panties and 
come back and hand them to him.   He had put them in his pocket 
then.  I'd been mortified that he would put them on the table where 
other patrons would see, or leave them as a tip for the waiter, or 
something along those lines.   He hadn't, but the rest of the meal 
was electrified with those possibilities, or others that even my dirty 
little mind couldn't come up with.  Here, it was just the bookstore 
owner.   The Bookstore Owner!    John, I remembered from his 
business card, he hadn't yet formally introduced himself to me.   
And here I was about to march out there into the store and hand my 
panties to him.    

I looked at the panties.    They were definitely a little damp with 
my pussy juice; there was a clear wet spot.   They weren't soaked 
or sopping, but yes; I'd left my mark.    I carefully folded them, 
and then folded them again, until there was a little dry square of 
panties, the wet spot on the inside.   I looked into the mirror again.    
I looked pretty presentable, if I did say so myself.   I'm 33, but 
when most people guess my age, they guess 5 years younger.    I'm 
slim and trim; I run a lot.   But my metabolism hasn't slowed down 
yet, I don't gain much weight whether I exercise or not, I do it to 
keep toned.   Jealous friends on the Adkins diet swear I've made 
some deal with the devil as I scarf down the pasta.   I have brown 
hair down to my shoulder blades.   There are a few gray hairs here 
and there if you look closely. So far, I haven't done anything about 
that.  Brown eyes.  People think I have a pretty face, an innocent 
face.  A guy remarked on that once, as he looked into my eyes 
while he slid his cock into my mouth, his hands gripping the back 
of my head firmly.  I've done this sort of thing before, but I was 
still nervous.   And I've never done it in a situation like this, where 
I hardly knew the guy.   And this guy he was fairly handsome, 
but he was also just about old enough to be my father.   I've been 
with older men; in college I had sex with a man twice my age, he 
was 40's, I was 21.    But I was older now, and so was this man.   It 
still wasn't past the point of no return.     I could go out there, and 
sprint for the door, pound down the steps like Daffy Duck saying 
"hoo hoo!", leave a silhouette of my passing if the door wouldn't 
open fast enough.

Omigod.  What if go out there and he's standing there naked with 
his cock out?      What if he's gone and changed into a Tutu or 
otherwise exhibiting some weird fetish?   
 
I finally took a deep breath, and retrieved my purse.  It was kind of 
awkward; I finally put it over my shoulder, transferred the panties 
to my other hand and opened the door. Stepped into the small 
corridor.   I was relieved to see he wasn't standing outside the 
bathroom door.   I moved around the corner, into the main room, 
still half-expecting him to jump out from the corner of my field of 
vision.     But no, there he was, still behind the counter, reading a 
newspaper.     But he looked up as soon as I stepped into the room.   
He didn't say anything, but waited to see what I would do.

I stepped forward. Our eyes were on each other.   I walked across 
the wooden floor.    After a moment, where I again ascertained that 
nobody else was in the store, I set my panties down on the counter.

He smiled and glanced at them, but made no move to pick them 
up.   I'd been worried that he was going to put his nose in them and 
inhale deeply or something.    

"Lift your skirt up as high as it will go."

I said nothing but stared at him, and then, with a smile, I reached 
down with both hands and grasped both sides of the skirt and 
lifted.    The denim wasn't as malleable as an ordinary skirt would 
be, but I did manage to invert it.   Now I was standing here in 
sneakers and socks, with my skirt pulled up, exposing bare legs 
and my pussy.   I wasn't shaven currently down there, but I was 
pretty trimmed down there.  This place was probably a bitch to 
heat, and I could feel cool air now on a place on my body that I 
never expected to expose in a bookstore.

"Turn around," he said.

I did a slow little pirouette, glancing at the door.    Even if 
someone was in the hallway, or coming up the stairs, they'd 
probably not be able to see me, their view would be of his counter, 
not me standing out in the room at large with my skirt pulled up.  
So I gave him a view of my ass.   It's not a bad ass.  A little boney, 
perhaps; I'm not JayLo; I'm a skinny white girl.

He still was seated, just enjoying the view.   "Climb up on the 
counter", he said.

I walked closer and, after a moment, took my purse off my 
shoulder and set it on the left on the counter.  Then I swiveled 
around, scooted up on the counter, having to rearrange my skirt a 
bit.  Now my bare ass was on the wood.    I swung my legs up and 
over, until they were on his side.   My skirt was a little folded up, 
but I wasn't exposed to him.   He'd probably gotten a tantalizing 
swirl of skirt as I swiveled, but everything was barely covered 
now.   He just sat back in his chair, gazing at my legs.  He was 
pushed back as far as the chair would go, against the shelves 
behind him where books were kept that were on reserve for 
customers or hadn't been shelved yet in the store proper.  I was 
acutely aware of my folded panties over by the cash register.   And 
we were both aware that if either he or I raised my skirt, my pussy 
would be there in front of him.     But he wasn't in my space; I was 
there on the counter before him but it wasn't like I was in a lap 
dance position or anything.  There were still a couple of feet 
between his knees and where my ankles were.   What was going to 
happen now?   Would he lean forward and put his hands under my 
skirt and touch me there?   Would he command me to hop off the 
counter and sit in his lap, or straddle him in his chair?   I found my 
eyes drawn to his crotch.   He was wearing slacks, but with the 
lighting  I really couldn't tell if he was sporting an erection.   But I 
had a feeling I would find out very shortly.

At that moment, there was a bang downstairs as the door to the 
street opened, and faster than seemed possible there were feet 
pounding up the wooden stairs, as rapid-fire as machinegun 
bullets.

I moved so fast I can hardly figure out now how I did it.  I jumped 
off the counter, which must have meant I was right there with my 
feet on either side of his chair, but I don't think I brushed up 
against him, and I danced nimbly away.   Anyway, in seconds I 
was around the counter again and back on the customer side.

At that moment, a young kid, well, college age, maybe 19, burst in.   

"Hi, are you still open?    I wanted to get here before you closed!" 
he panted, as if he'd run all the way here from campus.  He 
yammered on about some book he'd seen earlier in the week and 
wanted to get so he'd have something to read on Sunday.   I felt 
disheveled and flushed, like it must be obvious we were just in this 
compromising position.   But the kid seemed oblivious.

John seemed as taken back by the suddenness of his entry as I did.   
He mumbled something to the effect of, yes, we're still open, and 
the kid said, "I'll just be a minute!" and headed back to the Science 
Fiction section.

"I, I've gotta go!" I blurted, quietly but with conviction.   I 
snatched my purse off the counter and was out the door without a 
glance back.   I was down the stairs and out into the street in 
seconds seemingly. The sun was just disappearing and the sky was 
orange.  I was already on the side street and almost to my car 
before I got my breath back and my heart stopped jack hammering.    
And I could feel the crisp autumn air nipping at where my panties 
weren't.   Calm down, it wasn't like the kid saw anything, I told 
myself.    I took my keys out and stood indecisively before my car, 
strewn with autumn leaves in the last hour.    It was now getting 
dark, and I just couldn't picture going back to the main street and 
seeing if the door was locked now.  If the lights were still on.   If 
he was waiting for my return.    I wondered if he'd had the 
presence of mind to remove my panties from the counter before the 
kid came back from the depths of the store with his purchase.
I got into the car and drove home on autopilot.   Soon I was back at 
my place, with hardly any recollection on how I'd gotten there.    

Saturday night.   I could call a guy friend, a girl friend.  Just to 
chat, or to link up.    But I just couldn't picture venturing out into 
the night again.   I felt distinctly rattled.   I had four messages 
waiting on my answering machine.   With a start, I realized that he 
had my number from the form I had filled out.  Had he called?    I 
nervously pushed Play.      The first call was a pre-recorded 
telemarketer call, idiotically trying to act like I'd ordered a satellite 
dish from them and they were ready to install it.   I seem to get that 
two or three times a week.   The pre-recorded voice even pauses 
and says "Uh", and such, apparently to sound off-the-cuff.   I don't 
understand, does anyone respond to this moronic approach?      The 
second call was from my mother.  "You must have a hot date 
tonight!"  If she only knew what I'd been doing an hour ago.  The 
third call was from a male friend, one who had a more than 
platonic interest in me, but I hadn't really felt the same way.  He 
wanted to see a movie sometime.  The forth call was from a female 
friend, asking if I was free Sunday.     That was it.     I breathed a 
sigh of relief, mingled with an odd disappointment.    I poured a 
glass of wine from an open bottle of white wine in the fridge.   I 
turned on the TV and flipped through the channels for a while, and 
finally realized that I wasn't registering anything that was passing 
by.     I finally turned off the TV and poured a warm bubble bath.     
Took off my clothes (pointedly aware that I was now lacking a pair 
of panties), lighted a scented candle.  Wandered nude into the 
living room, and turned up the heat on the thermostat before 
returning to the bathroom and sliding into the water.   I closed my 
eyes and was lulled by the warm water, the droning sound of the 
bathroom fan that blocked outside noise.    If the phone was 
ringing now, I probably wouldn't hear it.   When I got out of the 
bath, would I find another blinking light on the answering 
machine?    I thought about his business card in my purse.    If I 
called now, would he still be there in the store, the lights still on, or 
maybe just one light on, waiting to see if I would call?  Would I 
get an answering machine?   What kind of message would I leave?   
I climbed out of the tub and toweled off, and then lay naked on the 
bathroom rug, curled up.   I could feel the heat from the furnace, 
but still a wave of goose bumps passed over me.  From under the 
bathroom sink I reached back behind the nearly empty bottles of 
shampoo that for some reason I never finished off but never threw 
out, and other bathroom bric-a-brac, I retrieved an object I seldom 
used, a fairly anatomically accurate flesh-colored dildo.    Usually I 
just use my fingers to get myself off, but I spread my legs wide, lay 
back on the rug, feet off the rug on the cold floor on either side, 
and worked myself furiously until I came.  It took the edge off, but 
was unsatisfying.   Now I had this sex toy wet with my pussy juice.  
I hesitated before putting it on the rug or the tile.  Finally I tossed it 
into the sink; I'd rinse it off later.   It clattered around, and I gave a 
weak laugh at the ridiculousness of this cock substitute rattling 
around in my sink.  I pulled another big oversized towel over 
myself there on the rug, almost as large as a beach towel, as a 
blanket.   The drone of the fan went on, lulling.   I could almost 
imagine the universe was comprised of this little warm room, that 
there was nothing out there behind that closed door.   I fell asleep, 
annoyed to find my eyes were wet with tears.

To Be Continued