Jan 262011

“This is not a bookstore,” Claire Currie said.

“You are correct,” her employer, Mr. Dillon said. “Graveyards are not known for selling books. You powers of observation once again amaze and delight me.”

Claire bit back her own sarcastic remark. As a librarian, Claire understood that it was not polite to respond rudely. As Mr. Dillon’s lover and receiver of his sadistic impulses, Claire knew that when her boss was in a biting mood. As an employee for the worlds most unique collection of erotic books, Claire knew that something special was about to happen. Why else would they be at a cemetery at eleven at night?

“You know, I did wonder why we had come to Utah,” Claire said. “I didn’t think there would be many erotic books here.”

Mr. Dillon breathed in the cold air. “Nonsense, there is plenty of porn here. What else are they going to do?”

Mr. Dillon started walking through the graveyard. Claire followed, struggling to stay upright on her four inch heels on the grassy ground. Her uniform was a strict affair and Mr. Dillon felt that just because they would be walking on grass at night was no reason to change her clothes. Black stockings provided her legs protection from the night air which was good because her black skirt barely came down to her knees. When a breeze of wind did travel up her skirt, her flimsy red thong offered not protection to her bushy sex. The white button shirt she wore might have kept her warm if Mr. Dillon hadn’t insisted on her leaving enough buttons open to reveal a generous amount of her dark cleavage.

Claire followed Mr. Dillon through the graveyard. She became aware that they were not the only ones here. There were whispers in the darkness. There was also the occasional giggle and the sound of beer bottles clinking together. A smell of alcohol, cigarettes and hot dogs wafted through the air.

“Sir, what are we doing here?” Claire asked.

Mr. Dillon stopped. He looked down and noticed that he was illuminated by moonlight. He took a step to the side and made sure he was cloaked in darkness. With a wave of his hand, he motioned Claire to join him in secrecy of night.

“About thirty yards from here,” Mr. Dillon said, “is the grave of Phyllis Nubmeg. She wrote about fifty books in the eighties about exhibitionist women who masturbated in public. She was a fantastic cook, knitted together wonderful quilts and was a proud lesbian in small town that didn’t know what to do with her.”

“She sounds like a lovely woman,” Claire said.

“She was,” Mr. Dillon said. “But more importantly, she was a hell of a writer. Two years after she died, a woman was spotted visiting her grave on the day of Phyllis’ birthday. The woman stripped off her pants and sat on Phyllis’s gravestone. The woman masturbated and then left. No one knows who the woman was.”

Claire giggled. “Sounds like a dedicated fan.”

“Every year after that, a woman comes to Phillis’ gravestone to masturbate,” Mr. Dillon said. “It has become a local scandal and tourist attraction. The local authorities turn a blind eye and the night becomes an unofficial holiday. The woman who comes to masturbate changes from year to year and sometimes the same woman appears for several years in a row.”

“How fascinating,” Claire said. “Are we here to witness this mystery woman?”

Mr. Dillon snorted. “Ms. Currie, we are the cause of the mystery woman. When Phyllis passed away, she left the Colette-Ashbee collection the entirety of her books, her works in progress and writing notes. She also left a recipe for broccoli and bacon casserole that is divine. The condition of the will states that she wanted this tradition to take place on her birthday. Even in death she wanted to see a pretty woman masturbate.”

“Wait, you want me to go do it?” Claire said. “You brought me here to masturbate in front of strangers?”

“No, Ms Currie,” Mr. Dillon said with steel in his voice. “I want you to fulfill the obligations of the Colette-Ashbee collection to a great writer. I would gladly do it myself but Phyllis was not a fan of the cock. In the past, we have hired prostitutes and paced ads in lesbian journals. Now that you are under our employment, we can bring the tribute in house.”

Claire took a deep breath. “Was that broccoli and bacon casserole as delicious as you say it was?”

“I planned to make some tonight,” Mr. Dillon said. “It was why I insisted we have a motel room with a kitchen.”

“Any special instructions I should be aware of?” Claire said.

Mr. Dillon placed a scarf in her hand. “Phyllis was always a fan of mystery. Conceal your identity just a little.”

Claire wrapped the scarf around her head so that it covered her mouth.

“Oh, and masturbate to a climax,” Mr. Dillon said. “Don’t cheat a great writer.”

Claire nodded. “I will be right back.”

“I’ll be watching,” Mr. Dillon said.

A delicious shiver went down her spine. At least she won’t be performing solely for strangers. Claire walked through the graveyard and looked for Phyllis’ grave. As she walked, she heard the whispers around her suddenly grow quiet. Her unknown audience was realizing that their mystery woman had arrived.

Claire found the grave easily. Phyllis’ name was in large letters but what gave it away was the top of the gravestone. It was shaped with a slight depression like a seat. It was made to be sat on.

Thinking of her audience, and thinking of Mr. Dillon, Claire stripped slowly. She lifted one stocking clad leg and took off her shoe before repeating the process with her second foot. Her skirt went off next so people could see the stockings and bright red thong on her dark body. Claire wanted to keep the stockings on for warmth but this wasn’t about her. This was for Phyllis so Claire bent over and slowly unrolled one stocking and then the other from her legs. Last to go was her thong. Claire put the thong on the ground before the gravestone like an offering.

She sat in the seat of marble gravestone and quickly discovered just how cold it really was tonight. She suppressed her scream of discomfort and tried to appear as casual as possible. The librarian parted her legs and ra her fingernails up and down her thighs. The moonlight shone down on her like a sensual spotlight.

Claire reached between her legs. She felt the thick hair of her bush part for her fingers as she sought her sex. A tremble went through her as she touched her sex. She was already wet.

She thought of what life must have been like for Phyllis. Claire came from London and all she knew was of large cities and dense populations. Utah with it’s wide open spaces and small towns that look like outposts of humanity were alien to her. Phyllis was a strange woman in a town where she could not hide it. She dreamed and wrote of naked woman touching themselves. She wrote of women exposing who they were. Claire could understand that.

Claire stroked. At first she tried to block out the people who might be watching but her opinion changed. Phyllis didn’t want to block them out. The proud woman wanted them to see. Claire spread her legs a little wider. Claire plunged her fingers a little deeper. Claire moaned and arched her back. The librarian wasn’t going to hide what she was doing; she was going to put it in their faces.

Claire stroked faster. She thought of the people in the graveyard watching. Were they just here to catch a sexy thrill? Were they fellow sufferers of perverse thoughts that would never be accepted by their friends and family? Were they secret writers in a small town? Claire dedicated her stroking to them as well.

She used both hands to masturbate. Her moans drifted through the silent graveyard. She squirmed on the gravestone, clenching her legs and arching her back. Sometimes she pulled a hand out of her sex and grabbed her breast through her shirt. Her sticky fingers left wet handprints on her shirt.

Claire felt her climax coming. To her surprise, she actually delayed for a few minutes. She was enjoying this. She enjoyed performing a service for a writer she had never met or even read. Mr. Dillon was a fan and that was good enough for Claire. Perhaps Claire enjoyed the chance to do something on Mr. Dillon’s behalf.

She stroked faster. Her hand became a blur as she gave in to her desires. She wanted to climax but she wanted to please as well. Claire wanted to please Phyllis, the crowd and her boss. Her body was her instrument of their pleasure.

Finally she climaxed. The scarf around her mouth couldn’t block her cry of joy. She kept stroking as she rode her climax out. Distantly she thought she heard applause but it was quickly silenced.

Claire stopped. She cleaned her fingers with her mouth. Taking her time, she cleaned each finger individually.

She stepped off the gravestone and picked up her skirt. Claire wrapped it around her body and slipped her shoes back on. She picked up her stockings and her thong. A wet spot was visible on the seat of the gravestone and Claire wondered how many other women had left their contributions. Claire felt a strange kinship to those women.

Claire placed her red thong on the gravestone and walked away.

Mr. Dillon was waiting for her in the darkness.

“Leaving the thong was a nice touch,” he said.

“It felt right,” she said.

“I think we shall add that to the tradition,” he said.

“I will remember it when we come back next year.”

  5 Responses to “Fiction: Midnight Rendezvous”

  1. Once again you have managed to write something that, on face value, squicked me – but goddamn it was hot!! And yay! for return of librarian stories :)

  2. Kathryn- Yay! I know, it has been too long between librarians.

  3. I love this. But, the librarian is just hot regardless and the graveyard… yummy.

    On a side note, I’m profoundly saddened that the stranger who visited Poe’s grave every year–and passed the mantle to his sons–has not done it for two years now. I don’t know why, I never been there for the anniversary, but it just saddened me greatly that specific graveyard visit is ending.

  4. t’Sade- I am greatly surprised that no one else is maintaining the tradition.

  5. There are a bunch of people who want to, but none of them know the secret hand signal or arrange the roses right. They end up being people who desperately want to continue, but–in the words of Highlander–there can only be one.

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