“Here are my husband’s books,” Mrs. Lepin said. “Take whatever you want. I certainly don’t need them.”
Claire really didn’t see how anyone could need them. The books were cheap paperbacks piled in a cardboard box. The smell of pulp seeped from the box. Hidden away in a closet, the dirty box was in stark contrast to the modern furnishings of the study where they now sat.
Mr. Dillon picked up a book and flipped through the pages. He was frowning darkly. Claire could tell he was disappointed, and despite the way she felt about his behavior during the meal, she couldn’t help feeling sympathetic. First, he’d found out that there was no ‘Succulent Sutra,’ and now these poor tawdry books were the only prizes to be found.
“Mr. Dillon, I’ll leave you to go through the books,” Mrs. Lepin said. “I will be in the kitchen if you require me.”
Mr. Dillon’s disappointment melted into a smile. “Thank you, madam. Your hospitality has salvaged what looks to be slim pickings for the collection.”
Mrs. Lepin closed the doors as she left. Claire suspected it had less to do with granting privacy than with insulating the rest of the house from the dirty books. Still, she was relieved to be alone with her boss. A box of porn and her boss were easier to deal with than a slutty widow.
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“Ms. Currie, what is your first impression?”
“She’s a horny tramp who’s looking for someone to bed before her husband’s corpse is even cold,” Claire said.
Mr. Dillon actually smiled. He reached up and grabbed the back of her hair. A savage twist of her hair made her start, but she knew better than to cry out while at a client’s house.
“I meant the books, Ms. Currie.”
“Oh, ah, they appear to be poor-quality paperbacks, most likely from the ’50s and ’60s. They appear to be American and in very bad shape. I suspect they all have mildew and perhaps other stains.”
The grip in her hair relaxed. “I concur. Obviously, such books are beneath my attention though they will provide a good exercise for you. Go through each and every book and document all the pertinent details. I’ll then decide which books, if any, are worthy of inclusion in the collection.”
“Understood, and what will you be doing?” Claire asked.
The grip in her hair tightened again. “Jealousy is a useless emotion for a librarian, Ms. Currie. Perhaps you need a reminder of your duties.”
Claire’s cunt clenched. “Yes,” she said.
Mr. Dillon released her hair and picked up another book.
“As you look through these books, I want you to stroke your sex six times every time you come across a certain word. Hmm, which word should it be? Something common and yet racy. Ah, let’s go with ‘bust.’ It makes me think of tight sweaters and top-heavy waitresses. So, every time you see the word ‘bust,’ I want you to stroke your cunt six times. And of course, no climaxing. Understood, Ms. Currie?”
“Very good,” Mr. Dillon said. “Now get to work and be diligent. I shall be talking to the poor widow Lepin. Maybe with enough prodding I can get her to remember something that could have been ‘Succulent Sutra.’ ”
Claire almost made a comment about “prodding” but refrained. She pulled a chair up to the dusty box as Mr. Dillon left the room. He didn’t close the doors behind him. Feeling a little vulnerable, she angled the chair so that her back was to the door. If she was going to be stroking herself, there was no sense flashing the hallway.
The book on top of the pile was titled “The Busty Secretary Pool.” Claire suspected that Mr. Dillon’s choice of the word “bust” was not a coincidence. She pulled up her skirt and slipped her fingers under her thong. Six efficient strokes of her clit later, Claire cleaned her fingers the way Mr. Dillon had taught her, with her mouth.
She processed the book. She opened the cover and looked for a copyright and publishing date. Both were located under the title, but since Claire had once again seen the word “busty,” she paused to administer another six strokes. Each stroke pushed away thoughts of Mrs. Lepin and returned Claire to her earlier level of sexual frustration. Earlier, she had dreaded the prospect of stimulation without end, but now, she welcomed it. She could deal much better with being horny and squirming in her seat than with Mr. Dillon’s strange change in behavior.
Her cunt still tingling from the strokes, Claire returned to the book. The pages were brittle, indicating cheap paper. A water stain was evident on the bottom right corner, and the spine had been cracked ages ago. A quick skim revealed that all the sex scenes were of a heterosexual nature except for one lesbian scene involving a threesome. Claire recorded all these details in her small notebook for Mr. Dillon’s review later.
She was about to set the book down when something caught her eye. On the last page, where the publisher advertised other books, including one titled “Busty Betty,” resulting in another six strokes, someone had written on the pages in a red pen. Claire shook her head disapprovingly. Mr. Dillon hated defaced books and never allowed them into the collection. The presence of writing almost certainly disqualifies the book altogether. Claire felt a momentarily resentment of the time wasted cataloging the book’s attributes, although she didn’t regret the three instances of stroking it had provided.
Curious, Claire read the offending writing. It was a list of ingredients: 1 orange, juiced; 2 egg whites; 1 tablespoon cocoa. That was it. Claire frowned. Since it was obviously part of a recipe, Mr. Lepin must have defaced his own book. If that was the case, odds were other books were similarly molested.
“Oh, well,” she said to herself. “Every book written on is another book I can skip.”
As she reached down for the next book, she heard something. It was a faint sound, but it echoed in the down the hallway from the kitchen. It lasted only a second, but there was no mistaking what it was. It was the sound of a zipper being pulled down.
“Not my concern,” she muttered. She snatched up the next book and groaned at the title. It was called “The Mafia Bust,” and it featured a top-heavy brunette dressed as a gangster’s moll. Claire closed her eyes at the awfulness of the pun and pulled up her skirt.
One, two, three, four, five, six.
This time, she checked for writing. She flipped the pages rapidly and found a page with more handwriting. Crammed in the margins was a list of more ingredients. This time, it looked like the ingredients for dough. Claire congratulated herself for skipping any possible sightings of that word and closed the book. That was when she noticed that the title had been repeated no less than three times on the back cover.
One, two three, four …
On the twelfth stroke, she heard something that made her cunt ache. It was a sloppy wet sound that echoed down the hallway. She paused in her own sloppy wet noisemaking and listened. It sounded like messy eating until Claire distinctly heard Mrs. Lepin groan. The sound continued, and Mrs. Lepin kept groaning.
In her mind, Claire could clearly see them. Mrs. Lepin would be witting up on a counter, her dress up around her waist, revealing her cunt. Mr. Dillon would have pulled up a chair and would be devouring her. His hands clamped around her thighs, he would be assaulting the widow with his tongue, and the bitch would be moaning overdramatically with each lick. The whore.
Furious, jealous and terribly aroused, Claire counted off the rest of her strokes.
The next book had nothing to do with breasts, busts or mammary puns. It was simply titled “Mistress.” Claire tried to ignore the faint sounds of cunnilingus coming from the kitchen and flipped through the book. This time, the writing was at the top of a page. It was more cooking instructions, this time listing the time needed to cook a certain cream. It was another book to discard.
Claire moved to close the book but hesitated. She wanted to make sure there would be no surprises on the back cover. She looked straight down on the pages and slowly closed the book. A smile lit her face as she managed to close the book without seeing a single word. She turned around and placed the book on the stack of two books she had previously checked. Their titles were written clearly on their spines, facing her.
“Fuck!” Claire exclaimed.
Claire sat back in her chair and once again applied the punishment strokes. Her sex was quite wet at this point. Her fingers slipped in easily, and she couldn’t help moaning. In the kitchen, Mrs. Lepin moaned with her. Claire grimaced until she decided to close her eyes and imagine that Mr. Dillon’s tongue was administering the required strokes.
One lick, two licks, three licks, four licks …
Her stroking and fantasizing finished, Claire returned to her work. The next book she checked contained another list of ingredients. The one after that contained three separate pages of writing that detailed what she guessed to be some sort of marinade. Another book was free of writing except on the back cover, where seven types of chocolate were listed.
As she worked, Claire became more adept at avoiding that word. Sometimes — as with the book titled “The Bust That Busted Las Vegas!’ — it was unavoidable, but when it came to inside the book, Claire learned to scan without reading. She made it through “The Magic Bra” without spotting a single bust, which was a strange yet admirable achievement. All in all, she was forced to stroke on only five more occasions.
Although she managed to avoid stroking too much, there was no escape from the sounds coming from the kitchen. The wet eating sounds continued, but the moaning changed from Mrs. Lepin’s voice to Mr. Dillon’s. After a while, there was a great crashing sound, as if an entire counter had been cleared off in a dramatic, romantic fashion. That was followed by the rapid sounds of flesh meeting flesh as if someone were being furiously fucked from behind. At one point, there was the distinct sound of an ass being slapped, and Claire fumed with rage that Mrs. Lepin’s thin pale bottom was being spanked in preference to her own ample brown charms. Thankfully, the spanking lasted only a short while, but then it was replaced by the sounds of more vigorous fucking.
Throughout this, Claire tried to stay professional and do her job. In situations like these, it was best to keep your focus on the job. Certainly, Mr. Dillon had had a varied and wondrous sex life before she came under his employment, it would be foolish to think otherwise. Sure, the last three months of being spanked, taught, fucked, tormented, teased and fucked had been great, but it would be foolish to think Mr. Dillon did all that out of some sort of interest. Obviously, he was making use of what was on hand, when deep down, he craved skeleton-thin, arrogant bitches like Mrs. Lepin.
Claire picked up another book as Mrs. Lepin’s orgasmic moans reverberated down the hallway. With a practiced skill, Claire flipped right to the written-on page. She blanked noted its presence and closed the book when something struck her. She reopened the book and read what Mr. Lepin had written there.
“Now taking the cream sauce, apply it directly to your lover’s breasts. As it settles, sprinkle on the chocolate dusting made earlier as if you were blowing kisses.”
The writing continued. Claire read on as Mr. Lepin tied in other references that she was sure were components created in earlier book notes. The writing ended up abruptly, and she picked up the next book in the box. She flipped and found the continuation of the serving instructions. It became more pornographic as it made it clear that all these foods, creams and desserts were meant to be used on a lover as a prelude to sex. This particular passage detailed how the lover’s bust was to be prepared.
Claire sat back, stunned. In a daze, she lifted her skirt and stroked herself. Her body was on autopilot as her mind connected all the writings. Mr. Lepin had written his “Succulent Sutra,” but it was spread out over a large group of cheap erotic paperbacks. It was the perfect place to hide his masterpiece where only he could work on it.
After the sixth stroke, Claire brought her fingers to her mouth and licked them clean. She couldn’t help but speculate on what her cunt might taste like after application of one of Mr. Lepin’s recipes. Then she thought of what a cock might taste like. Claire sucked her fingers dry as she imagined an entire body of delicious flavors.
Sweeter than all those thoughts was the idea of interrupting Mr. Dillon and Mrs. Lepin to tell them of what she had discovered.
As silently as she could, Claire walked down the hallway. She carried three books with her to help prove her deduction. Just to be safe, she didn’t include any that had the word “bust” in the title. To her disappointment, the sounds from the kitchen were not those of moaning intercourse. They were the quiet whisperings of two well-fucked and exhausted people.
“Mr. Dillon, that was truly an inspiring after-dinner course,” Mrs. Lepin said.
“If I was inspiring, it was only because you were my muse,” Mr. Dillon said.
Claire rolled her eyes, but she still did not go in. Spying on her boss was not professional, but the novelty of it aroused her. Mr. Dillon certainly never said anything afterwards when they had sex. The chance to sample what passed for pillow talk from Mr. Dillon was too good to pass up. She took off her glasses and acted like she was cleaning them in case she was spotted.
“Where did you learn that thing you did with your tongue?” Mrs. Lepin asked.
“A Grecian vase depicted that technique, and I put it to use,” Mr. Dillon said.
“And that move you did with your hips?”
“I learned that in South Korea,” Mr. Dillon said.
“And how did you make me climax so hard I thought I had died?” Mrs. Lepin purred.
“That was practice,” Mr. Dillon said.
There was a girlish giggle that Claire couldn’t believe was coming from the proper Mrs. Lepin.
“Who knew you could learn something useful from being a librarian?” Mrs. Lepin said.
“I am afraid I don’t follow you,” Mr. Dillon said.
Claire grinned. She could hear the drop in warmth in Mr. Dillon’s voice. He was annoyed, and Mrs. Lepin apparently didn’t realize it. Orgasms must dull the perception, after all.
“Your job must be an endless cycle of finding books and bringing them back to the library,” Mrs. Lepin said. “You’re a purchaser constantly buying ingredients for a literary restaurant that never opens. I would be dreadfully bored. Where’s the creativity? An intelligent man like you must be frustrated to always be buying and reading without ever making something you can call you own.”
Ah, I see your mistake,” Mr. Dillon said. “I have a production of my own. It’s something I plan to work on for the next 20 years or so.”
“You’re writing a book of your own?” Mrs. Lepin asked. “Good for you!”
“No, I’m afraid my project is nothing that easy,” Mr. Dillon said. “My project is young Ms. Currie. I am constantly preparing her for her continued employment with the collection. I am measuring how much punishment and how much stimulation are required to make her learn. I pay unrelenting attention to her development in the hopes of one day creating a librarian to whom I can be proud to pass my responsibilities.”
Claire felt a strange feeling pass over her. It was a mixture of pride, affection and quite a bit of arousal. The way Mr. Dillon had earlier insulted and ignored her now had a new context. Claire’s mind and cunt struggled to take it all in. It was too much to absorb, so like a good librarian, she stopped thinking and went back to work.
“Excuse me, Mr. Dillon, but I have made a discovery that I think will be of interest.”
To be continued.