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Shutter-Buggered

Jo-Anne Wiley   August 30, 2015   | 21894 Views
Turning, she studied herself carefully from the waist down. The soft angora ended three inches above the elongated belly button, which, like a beauty mark, highlighted her tight tummy. And below, like a milk-pod hung between her high hip bones, the curve of her belly accentuated the proud rise of her pubis. Pubic hair, glistening like a golden mantle, barely hiding the protruding lips of her swollen sex. Swallowing hard she opened the door and stepped out into the chill of the library. rings Shutter-Buggered...
an abridged story from Jo-Anne Wiley's current book

Mr. Harcroff was considering her legs.

Becky squirmed in her chair but did nothing to cover up. He wasn't leering; more like a timid assessment. She figured there was nothing wrong with that, unless the fact that he was old enough to be her grandfather mattered. It didn't seem to matter to her; the way her body responded!

Becky had arrived at the library before nine. Her computer sat on a table set sideways to the main counter. She was busy online when she got the strange feeling that someone was watching her. Her back stiffened and her head came around. Mr. Harcroff stood at the counter; his eyes focused below the table. At five-foot nothin', she was little. But Becky was nicely proportioned. She knew she had good legs, though she thought her kneecaps were a little large, but all her dresses were cut four inches above the knee and she loved short-shorts in the summertime. Becky's dress had ridden up a little; she had thought she was alone, but she resisted the urge to reach under the table and pull her hemline down. It felt childish somehow. And anyway it was kind of exciting to attract the eye of an older man and she felt a stir between her thighs; like a small furry creature with long fingernails was reaching upwards.

“Mr. Har… croff!” she dragged it out and felt a big embarrassed smile spread across her face. “It’s not polite to look up a young girl’s skirt.”

His eyes locked on hers and she saw the flush deepen. His lips humped and he cocked a shoulder. She laughed. “Mr. Harcroff?” she repeated, more sympathetic now. “How can I help?” Still smiling, Becky rolled back on her office chair and swiveled her knees toward him. The poor man couldn’t help himself and she watched his eyes drift down again. The creature in her groin reached up and grasped the base of her spine causing a shudder that compressed the muscles in her lower back. She stifled a gasp, squeezed the pucker in her buttocks and gave Mr. Harcroff a moment to figure out just how far up her skirt he could see before unfurling her ankles and standing.

“A… a card,” he managed, eyes locking on her's once again. “I’ve been coming in a fair amount. I guess I need a library card.” “Of course, of course. I just need you to fill out the form.” She shook herself into attentiveness. “Go ahead on it,” Becky motioned to the reading area with a tilt of her head. “I’ll make up your card and bring it in to you.” He nodded and turned, walking away. His step was light but precise and he carried a black walking stick but didn’t seem to really need it. He wore khaki slacks, moss-green golf shirt and a tweed jacket to ward off November’s chilly morning breeze. He went into the back where floor to ceiling windows let in the weak sunlight. He paused to pick up a paperback from the rack and then, choosing a comfortable chair at a long reading table, he got settled and opened a book. Becky sat back at her desk, and wrapping her arms around her torso, rocked to and fro, trying to get her hormones under control. Mr. Harcroff had certainly jump-started her little 'girl-girl' engine. She was a little surprised. It had been a long time since she had felt so heated… not since, damn… not since Danny Miller!

Danny had been her boyfriend. Well, not boyfriend really; she had provided amusement, was closer to the truth. They had never discussed love or even a future together. At least not beyond the next fuck. Becky had met him at a girlfriend’s party. He was looking for something young, cute and chaste, and she had walked through the door: blond, cute ski-jump nose, dressed in pink with new, white vinyl boots. She was almost fourteen. He was nineteen. It took him all of ten minutes to cut her out of the herd.

Becky moved up and down the aisles, re-shelving books knowing full well he was watching. The bookcases were open shelving and he could catch a glimpse of her from time to time while she worked. She could feel his eyes on her body. She stretched, reached, and knelt down; slipping books into vacant slots. When she could, Becky stole a glance at him; he had abandoned his reading and was watching intently. She liked it.

Sex with Eric, her fiance, was mechanical and unimaginative. As badly as things had turned out with Danny, she missed the excitement. After their first encounter, she had thought it would be over, but Danny Miller had other ideas. He started picking her up after school. It was always for the sex and he taught her everything anyone would care to know. He could never seem to get enough and he liked it hard and kinky. They did it everywhere: in the bathroom at the pool hall, on his boss' desk, bent over the swat cannon in front of City Hall, in the back of the bus on the way to a football game, in the bed of his friend's pickup truck while doing seventy down I-95. And finally, even in front of his friends.

Becky had been working her way up and down the aisles, re-shelving books. She had worked her way closer and closer to where Mr. Harcroff sat and now turned the corner of the last bookcase and pushed her cart to a stop in front of his table. She picked up a couple of books and replaced them; the last one on the top shelf, where she had to stand on tippytoes. The hem of her dress slide up over lively thighs and she heard him stir, but she didn’t look 'round. Becky returned to the cart and was picking up another book when he startled her.

“Becky. God, Becky! What are you doing to me?”

She half turned toward him. The book in her hand caught the handle of the cart and slipped from her fingers to the floor. She knelt down to retrieve it, one knee on the carpet, exposing the inner thigh of the opposite leg. There was the intake of breath, a poignant sound that caused her to look over to him. His eyes were frozen on her. It was crazy, but she slowly raised a hand and teased the soft flesh, raking her fingernails along the taut skin as he watched. Then, with the blood pounding in her ears, she grabbed the hem of her dress and pulled it higher, until it was even with her crotch.”It's what you wanted to see...”

*      *      *      *

Becky found herself desperately waiting for Thursday when Mr. Harcroff was due at the library, again. It was only a couple of days but he had kindled a small spark in her chest and she desperately wanted to fan those flames.

Thursday morning, she showered, dressed carefully and took extra time with her hair. Mr. Harcroff came into the library a little before ten. She took cardboard and printed a sign: “Back in 5 minutes” and taped it to the front door then twisted the lock. Becky pushed her cart of books along the end wall to where the restroom was located, went in and checked herself in the mirror. She looked pretty good. She had brushed her blond hair until it glistened radiantly and had used a touch of pale lipstick. She was wearing her favorite sweater: soft pink angora that was tight along her torso and, without a bra, it cupped her breasts seductively, giving her a soft, sleekness. It hugged her tummy, ending above her navel, leaving an expanse of pale skin above the waist of her fitted skirt. If I was being photographed, she thought, it would be a soft focus, making me cuddly, like a kitten.

Satisfied, she pried off her high heels and took off her skirt and underpants, then pulling open her bag, she found her hair brush. Becky back-brushed her pubic hair, checked the mirror again and returned the brush with quaking fingers. She pulled on her shoes. Turning, she studied herself carefully from the waist down. The soft angora ended three inches above the elongated belly button, which, like a beauty mark, highlighted her tight tummy. And below, like a milk-pod hung between her high hip bones, the curve of her belly accentuated the proud rise of her pubis. Pubic hair, glistening like a golden mantle, barely hiding the protruding lips of her swollen sex.

Swallowing hard she opened the door and stepped out into the chill of the library. He couldn't see her right away; there were five rows of bookcases between them. She rolled the cart along the first row, replacing books and thrilling at the feel of the cool air swirling in and around her legs and her bum.

Then she heard him sputter.

He had caught sight of her legs as she moved past an open spot in the shelving. As she worked up and down the aisles, closer to him, he had more opportunity to see her through the openings between the books, but he said nothing. She worked quickly and minutes later her cart was empty. Becky came out in full view, turned and coiled up into the chair beside him, like a pussycat coming to the heat.

He closed his eyes, as if pondering a decision. Becky slid forward, thrusting her knees to touch his. His eyes remained closed but a small frown creased his brow like he was holding back, trying to suppress his emotions.

Becky slowly got to her feet, stood over him. He almost seemed asleep but his breathing was staggered; his chest expanding, contracting. She leaned over him and he offered no resistance when she lifted his hands from his lap. His penis raised the soft material of his woolen trousers; a long ridge along the top of his leg. Becky steadied herself, her thighs started to quiver; her mouth watered. She slipped one knee between his. Her legs were trembling uncontrollably and she had to steady herself with a hand on the back of his chair as she swung a knee over. Shamelessly, straddling his leg, she lowered herself down, crushing her sex onto his.

She heard him suck in and his hands flexed as she slide forward, grinding into him, pausing, then pulling back, relinquishing, rocking her hips, moving forward again, once more on the attack, enjoying the sensations that were lifting up into her belly. She hungered for him; wanted him to take her, deep in. What are the chances?

She rolled her hips forward again. His hands moved quickly, gripping her by the waist. “Becky. No. We mustn’t.” And he stilled her, making her want to cry out in anguish.

She threw her head back in exasperation and it was just then that she caught the movement off to her left. Her insides turned to fractured glass. Danny Miller stood six feet away framed in one of the tall, floor-to-ceiling windows with his cheek pressed against the glass. He had an idiotic grin on his face and waved to her, cheekily; with his other hand, he worked the shutter release on his cell phone. He was taking photographs.

The next day when Becky left work, she found a huge motorcycle stretched out next to her truck. It was all black and chrome; leather with buckles and fringe; shiny springs. The tank was blood-red with the profile of an Indian Chief on the side. The bike was as long as her truck.

As she slipped behind the wheel of her pick-up, she saw Danny approaching from around the back of the library. Returning from the scene of the crime, she thought. She rolled down her window and he leaned in, propping elbows on the sill.

“No fuck-y at work today, Becky?” he sneered. “I'd hate to miss anything. You looked pretty hot, without your skirt and panties.”

“Fuck off, Danny!” she retorted, trying to fight off the feeling of inadequacy and sudden panic.

“Ah-h-h-h... the girl looks so sweet, but she got quite the mouth on her!”

“Look Danny, I've had a long day. All I want is to go on home so if you've got something intelligent to say, say it. Get to the point!”

“Get to the point?” he laughed. “Here's the fuckin' point!” And he pushed his cell phone into her face. “Who's the fuckin' old dick?”

Becky looked at the tiny screen and felt the bile rise up like the head of a cobra. The image was bright and tightly focused. Her face was full-on; her hair hooked back behind an ear. Mr. Harcroff's face was in profile but he was easily identifiable. There was a look of concentration on her face; eyes focused down to where her crotch hovered over Mr. Harcroff's leg. It was so humiliating she wanted to puke.

“You fucking tom-peeper!” Becky was so upset she got the words twisted and flushed with embarrassment.

“Your Uncle Roy's going to kill that old fart when he sees this photo. He'll cut his dick off and choke him with it!”

“You wouldn't.” Becky clamored, trying not to plead.

“Fuckin' A, darlin',” he laughed. “Your old man might enjoy seeing how nice his daughter turned out, and I'll bet your boss here at the library would be interested in finding out how you spend your time. Then there's the school, your church, your friends! Baby I'm good at this. I'll come up with more.”

Becky humped her shoulders in defeat and pushed the hair back out of her eyes. “Ok Danny,” she conceded. “I got close to a thousand dollars in my savings account. You can have it. I'll bring it over to the pool hall.”

“Oh Becky, you sweet sorry cunt,” he said. “I don't want your coin. You got something better. I saw it yesterday, up between your frigin' legs. And when you decide what to do with it, I'll be waitin' for you, right over there.” And with that he smiled, pushed up off her truck, mounted the sidewalk and disappeared back around the end of the building.

Manipulate, then humiliate... she relented. It was classic Danny Miller! Becky sat in her truck listening to the heart-thud. If it had just been her in that photo she would have turned the ignition key and backed on out. But dear sweet Mr. Harcroff was poised beneath her and the photo didn't reveal that he had resisted her efforts. He would be blamed for abusing her. And she couldn't let that happen. She just couldn't.

Becky got out of the truck before she could bring herself to think clearly about what she was about to do. Well it's not like I haven't fucked him before, she tried to justify her actions as she retraced his steps along the sidewalk that led to the rear of the building. When she turned the corner, he had his back to her, looking out over the duck pond.

She searched for someplace to do it but the picnic tables had been stored away for the winter. Danny turned when he heard her footstep on the walkway; he was already out and ready. She glanced around again but there wasn't anyplace so she just turned on the sidewalk and bent over, her hands on her knees.

Chuckling, Danny came up behind her and ran his hands down across her ass and thighs. Her insides withered and she instantly felt soiled; touched by disease. He fumbled up the hem of her dress, crumbling it around her waist. She stared ahead at the brickwork as he pried down the elastic of her pantyhose. She felt the moist head between her legs; then her vagina was stretching painfully to accommodate him.

Becky swallowed hard to stifle the cry in her throat. “Easy!” she hissed, and concentrated on holding back the tears. But he just laughed and pulling back slightly, he renewed his thrust with more vigor so that she held up a hand to the library wall and locked her elbow to stop from being toppled over. He prodded her with short, agonizing strokes; increasing the speed 'till she felt delirious with humiliation and hurt. His breath rasped out in quick uneven grunts and she knew he was heated and wouldn't take long. She just needed to hold on a few moments more and he would finish. Her knees and hips ached and she was trying to shift her position a bit when she surprised herself.

She choked back a growing burst of emotion before it could escape her lips. God it is good! So good! No! No! she thought. It can't be! But damn, she hadn't been worked over like this in years. Keep going! Keep going, harder! Her body started to respond. No I can't. But then she was totally and completely engulfed by a tooth-rattling orgasm.

“No... no! Fuck, Danny! No!” She was at a loss to know what she wanted. Her throat was dry and tight as she felt him convulse; toppling over on her. He was about to defile her. She pushed a hand back, “No!” she shouted again and stumbled forward, twisted away.

“You fuckin' bitch,” he swore. “You've fuckin' wasted it.” He stepped back and pulled up his fly. “I give you a chance and you fuckin' wasted it.”

“No. Please, Danny. Please give me another chance.” I must be crazy, she thought but she continued to plead with him as he turned to leave. Tears had suddenly exploded from beneath her eyelids and she was choking on her words. He was already halfway to the corner of the building, giving a backward, dismissive flip of his hand by the time she scrambled to her feet to run after him.

“I'm sorry, Danny. Please. I'll be good,” she appealed to him as she reached for his arm. “Please give me another chance.”

Becky's fingers closed on the leather but he tore his elbow from her grasp, took another two strides, then stopped. Without turning, he said, “Ok Becky. There is something...” He paused a moment to ponder his thoughts. Her knees were giving out and she leaned back against the brickwork, thankful on one hand that he had reconsidered, but also filled with dread at what it might cost her. “There is a little something you can do for me,” he continued. “Drop by my place later tonight. I have something for you. Eight o'clock.”

“Thank you, Danny,” Becky whispered but he had already turned the corner and was gone.

She gathered her wits and waited until the sound of his motorcycle had echoed down the street. She struggled her underwear and pantyhose back into place. Then she went to the water's edge to rinse her hands. She felt disgusted as she washed. It was the second time this week that she had washed another man's semen from Eric's engagement ring...

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