J.D. Salinger

He did not disclose his name or provide any means for Genevieve to contact him directly. It had been nine months since he had retained Genevieve’s services. His introduction was in the form of a short, hand written letter along with a ten-thousand dollar bank draft as a down payment. The letter requested that Genevieve procure a first edition printing of J.D. Salinger’s, Catcher In The Rye. It also informed Genevieve that the price she would ask would not be an issue if the book was in near mint condition.

He only provided a P.O. Box number for her to reply to, once she had secured the book. He would pick up the book and deliver the balance he owed to her in person, and he would only be available to do so on Sundays, at the stroke of midnight. He made it clear that anonymity was paramount if they were to engage in a business agreement.

It had been many months since Genevieve had made a significant sale. She had dipped a bit too deep into her personal savings to keep the book store she had inherited from her grandmother, afloat. Her fiancé had called off their engagement when Genevieve decided to quit her position at the law firm they both worked at to pursue her dream of writing and dealing in antique books. Genevieve moved from the bustling city and took up residence in the spacious flat above Ye Olde Book Shoppe bequeathed to her.

The book store was very dear to Genevieve. It held many fond memories of her youth. When each school year ended, her parents would drive Genevieve to the small town, north of where they lived, to spend the summer with her grandmother. The book store is where a love for books took hold in her. Her grandmother would read the classics to Genevieve while they sipped tea and nibbled on homemade cookies.

The book store was where Genevieve kissed a boy for the time. It was also where she masturbated to her first orgasm, whilst reading D.H. Lawrence. It was where she didn’t have to pretend to be anything other than her true self. It was where she was truly free - in every sense of the word.

Their first meeting was brief but very compelling. The pull they felt to each other was undeniable. It was the kind of attraction that fills a room when two kindred spirits recognize each other from a previous existence. Although they shared no more than a few salutatory words, a polite thank you, and an equally polite you are welcome. The sexual tension raging through their bodies crackled in the air around them.

He informed Genevieve that he was pleased at the near mint condition of The Catcher In The Rye, she had procured for him. Naturally, Genevieve had many questions that she had wanted to ask the tall, handsome, older gentleman on their first meeting. But she could not bring herself to ask a single one. As he walked towards the door to exit her store, it struck her peculiar that he had not extended his hand to her for the customary ritual of shaking hands, when a transaction has been completed.

Much to her surprise, Genevieve called out to him and asked, “Why didn’t you offer to shake hands with me?”

He turned around, smiled as he reached for the door’s handle and replied, “It is not proper etiquette for a gentleman to initiate a hand shake with a lady. When a gentleman and a lady meet for the first time, it is the choice of the lady if she wishes to shake hands. I would never entertain the thought of offending a lady.” He raised his cane and touched its silver handle to his forehead, as he grinned, “Good day, Lady Genevieve.”

His words, the controlled calmness in his voice, the steel in his gaze that didn’t attempt to hide the dark, intense energy in him, stirred new emotions and old memories in Genevieve. She was taken back in time to when she masturbated and experienced her first orgasm. She turned her eyes away from his mesmerizing gaze. Her cheeks grew red and hot. She bit her lip to stop herself from confessing to him that she had her first orgasm in the back of the book shop. She was confused at the sudden need to tell him, in detail, how her body reacted and how intense the feelings and emotions that rocked her had been. And that she wanted to feel those things again, many more times. Her cheeks grew hotter, and a slow burn flared between her legs.

Ernest Hemingway

The following month, Genevieve received another letter from the ‘Book Collector’. That is what she referred to him as. He had not disclosed his name to her and she didn’t ask. Genevieve was certain that the tall, broad shouldered man in the black suit and white shirt that created the perfect upside-down triangle upon his chiseled chest, with a walking cane which she found hideous, wasn’t the type to take kindly to being asked personal question.

Her heart raced as she opened the envelope. She stared at the black, cursive letters on the white paper for a moment, as the accompanying bank draft floated to the floor. He requested that she find a first edition of Hemingway’s, The Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories.

Genevieve gasped under her breath, “Yes, destroy me in the good way.”

She locked the front door and calmly headed to the powder room at the back of the shop. She stared at her reflection in the small mirror over the hand-basin as she slid one hand between her legs. She curled two fingers inside her slick, thrumming pussy. It had been close to one year since Genevieve had been intimate with a man. As she penetrated herself with quivering fingers, the need to feel a hard, hot cock set every nerve in her body on fire.

She plunged her fingers in and out of her pussy and rubbed the pad of her thumb across her swollen clit. Images of him thrusting his cock in and out her like a wild beast burned themselves onto her flesh. Her knees buckled, her free hand gripped the white hand-basin tight, until her knuckles matched the color of its porcelain. Her pussy clenched, she rubbed her clit faster and harder. Her body stiffened, a small tremor erupted between her legs. The tremor triggered an earthquake like orgasm that tore recklessly through her and mercifully extinguished the fire that engulfed her.

Something that had lain dormant inside Genevieve had awoken.

It took Genevieve three weeks to find a near mint copy of the book. She mailed a letter to the P.O. Box, the Book Collector had provided; informing him that she had his book in her possession. Eight days later, on a Friday, she received a letter from him confirming his visit on the Sunday.

Three knocks on her door announced his arrival.

She rushed to the door and opened it. “Hello,” she smiled up at him and extended her hand.

He grinned as he gently gripped her delicate hand, and replied, “Hello, Lady Genevieve.”

“Hello,” she repeated. The feel of her hand in his comforted her and made her feel safe. She had tried to block out the need of a man’s touch since her fiancé had left her. At that moment, she regretted denying herself many of her desires and needs.

He smiled and asked, “May I have my hand back?”

Genevieve laughed and blushed. “I’m sorry. Please, come in. I’ve made some tea. If you can spare the time, perhaps we could sit and chat for a bit?”

“Just for a moment,” he smiled.

His smile warmed Genevieve. It also set off a tingling in her clit and made her extremely wet. They sat across from each other at the tea table and Genevieve poured the tea.

“Do you write, Genevieve?” he asked the question in a matter of fact tone. As if it was a forgone conclusion that she was an author.

“I do have a book in the works,” she replied apologetically. Genevieve had been staring at the blinking cursor of her laptop until she drifted off to sleep, from the first day that she had moved from the big city.

He sipped his tea and replied, “I look forward to adding your book to my collection.”

Genevieve scrunched her lips and replied, “You might have to wait a very long time.”

“Then I will wait. In the meantime, I will require your services to find a first edition copy of Anais Nin’s, Delta of Venus, for me,” He placed the teacup on its saucer and stood from his chair. “Thank you for the tea. Regrettably, I must leave now.”

“So soon?” Genevieve asked.

“I am afraid so. I have much to prepare before my work takes me abroad for many months,” he replied with disappointment that equaled Genevieve’s.

Genevieve’s heart almost stopped beating when she learned that he would not be visiting her for many months.

Anais Nin

Genevieve was startled by the clatter her teacup made as she set it on the saucer on the tea table next to the reading chair she sat in. Her slender fingers continued to tremble long after she had released the cup’s handle.

“It’s only nerves,” she whispered to herself.

She darted her eyes to the clock on the wall and tried to look away from it before she saw its second hand move; an unconscious and futile attempt to stop time with sheer will. She had decided to seduce the Book Collector. She wanted him like no other man she had ever met. Her hair was tied back and still damp from the shower. Her nakedness was in plain view through the full length, sheer, white nightgown draped around her.

In exactly fifteen minutes, Genevieve would hear the three taps of his walking cane’s silver wolf head handle against the middle stile of her book store’s door. She had come to loathe waiting in anticipation for that sound. The very thought of him set off a fluttering in her belly.

His imposing presence filled the small book store with an inexplicable, intense energy. Genevieve felt as if the air was being sucked out of her lungs whenever she was in his company. Bubbling beneath the surface of her trepidation lurked sexual arousal that matched the inexplicable, intense energy that he seemed to emit.

Genevieve jumped with a start at each of the three knocks on her door. She took a deep breath, counted to ten and unlocked her book store’s door. She opened the door slowly and stepped back to allow him to enter. He was dumbstruck by the sight before him. His heart pounded and his cock twitched and grew stiff. He entered the book store and shut the door behind him.

Genevieve darted around him and leaned with her back against the door. “Fuck me before you leave,” she pleaded.

He stepped towards her and lowered his head to taste her full, red, quivering lips. Genevieve pressed her back harder against the door and turned her face away from him. He growled and leaned into her trembling body.

“Do you turn your head to deny the gentleman the taste of your sweet lips? Or do you turn your head to expose and offer your throat to the wolf?”

Genevieve's mind whirled. His words, and his fully erect cock pressed hard against her fluttering belly, set the room spinning out of control.

She gasped and pressed the palms of her hands against the door to ready herself to be mauled and ravaged by the savage beast she had awoken in him. Her sexual arousal would not be quenched by the actions of a gentleman. She needed a wolf to take his fill of her flesh. She shut her eyes, lifted her head and arched her back, offering her throat and the dripping, aching slit between her legs.

In a quivering, breathless voice she panted, “The wolf!”

The wolf growled and began to feed on her burning flesh. He tore the top of the thin nightgown open and exposed Genevieve’s heaving breasts. His teeth sunk deep into the side of her neck as his hand crushed one of her breasts against her chest. He squeezed her soft flesh and dug his nails deep into her. Genevieve wrapped her arms around his thick neck and pulled him tighter to her. She needed him to devour her and sate both their hunger. She needed to be wanted as a woman. To offer her body solely for a man’s pleasure. To be needed at the most basic level a man needs a woman and a woman needs a man.

He bit his way down to the top of her breast, then to her nipple and then to the underside of her breast. Genevieve moaned and let out panting cries form the pain and pleasure he was inflicting. She would wear the marks and bruises left by his teeth and hands for many days to come. And she would admire them for days to come.

He turned her around and lifted the hem of the nightgown over her hips. Genevieve spread her legs as he freed his cock from the confines of his trousers. He gripped the back of her neck and held her fast against the door. She quivered and moaned when he clawed at her dripping pussy. His touch set off a small tremor between her legs. He slathered her slick juice over the head of his cock, spread her ass cheeks and aimed the tip of his cock at her pussy. The heat from his cock on her opening made Genevieve come. Her pussy tightened and Genevieve shook from head to toe. She heard a low, menacing growl as he thrust deep and hard into her. Genevieve let out a long cry as his cock penetrated and stretched her most sacred of places.

He fucked Genevieve hard. His cock mercilessly pounded her very essence. He thrust deep into her, cursed the heavens like a madman, and pumped her full of his seed. The Book Collector grabbed a fistful of Genevieve’s hair, pulled her head back and softly kissed her lips. Their breath was ragged and their bodies quivered as one.

He slowly pulled out of her; Genevieve turned around and jumped into his arms. He carried her to her favorite reading chair and set her down gently.

Genevieve mustered up all the courage she could and meekly asked, “What is your name? We’ve been intimate. You owe me at least that.”

He took a deep breath, smiled at her and softly replied, “I promise I will disclose my name to you the next time we meet.”

“I don’t know when that will be. We might never see each other again. The world is cruel in that way. Tell me who you are, please,” she fought back a sob as a single tear rolled down her cheek.

His smile broadened. “I am a ghost chained at the bottom of a wishing well, nothing more. The world needs more stories about ghosts in wishing wells, Lady Genevieve. We will see each other again, you have my word.” He picked up his walking cane and headed towards the door.

Genevieve called out to him, “You forgot to take your book.”

He turned to face her and smiled, “The book is for you, Lady Genevieve.”

She closed her eyes and waited until she could no longer hear the roar of his car’s engine in the distance. When the book store was quiet again, she picked up the book he had gifted to her and opened it. Genevieve read a random line from a page. And the story she had wanted to write was born. Although he was not close to her, she could feel the powerful current between them.

Genevieve Bissette

“I loved your book! Please tell me you’re working on a sequel,” the middle aged woman almost squealed the words.

“Thank you,” Genevieve smiled at her fan and leaned forward as she winked, “The sequel is almost finished. I’m waiting for the perfect ending to come to me. What is your name?”

“Oh! I can’t wait to read it! It’ll be better than perfect! Francine, my name is Francine!”

Genevieve signed the book and thanked her fan.

Her book, Wishing Well, was a massive success. She was at Indigo, on Bay and Bloor, in her hometown, Toronto, for a book signing. The event ran four hours later than scheduled. Genevieve had anxiously scanned the crowd, between greeting fans and autographing books, for the Book Collector. She hoped that he had learned of her success and would come to see her.

When the last autograph seeker left, she sighed in disappointment. She stood up to make her way to the manager’s office to gather her personal belongings.

“Am I too late to ask the author to sign a copy of her book for me? I have waited a very long time.”

The familiar voice made her heart pound and set the world around her into a dizzying spin. She stood on trembling legs with her back to Book Collector. She took a moment to gather her emotions and asked in a quivering voice, “What is your name?”

She sensed his lips curling into the warm smile of his, as he paused before replying. Her heart raced faster, she held her breath and closed her eyes waiting for the words she longed to hear.

“My name is Edward.”

She turned and ran to him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed with all her might. With her face buried in the comfort of his chest, she whispered, “I’ve missed you madly, my forever Edward.”

The perfect ending revealed itself to Genevieve.