When Dobbin awoke from the unfortunate and dizzying nap that had assailed him on Christmas Eve, he found himself extremely pleased. It took him two minutes to figure out the reason behind this unexpected pleasure, and another five minutes to let the reason solidify and find a temporary shelter in his head.
Minutes later, he was scurrying down the narrow foot bridge connecting his hostel to the library. Joe and Jerry, the usual night shift security guards, stood outside. The inside of the library was as empty as it had ever been in living memory. Dobbin turned to check his watch – two hours to midnight!
A nineteen year old in his first year of college, Dobbin loved the library in its pomp – books aplenty, silence aplenty. This was his hideout – from work, from people. He didn’t possess many friends yet, and the select few were away celebrating. He didn’t mind. Dobbin had plans for quieter celebrations. And so, here he was, all set to weave a story out of the frightening yet fantastic dream from half an hour back.
“Shit!” In his hurry, he had left his bag in the room. No pen, no paper.
From his spot in one corner of the library, he scanned the floor for some helping, human presence. And sure he found one in Ms. Rita, the assistant librarian. What was she doing in the library, at this hour on Christmas Eve, and that too in grey pyjamas and a bright-red sweatshirt?
Good news and bad news. On the brighter side, he was stuck in the library with a lady who had been the subject of many of his pleasure trips, often set in this very library (though his favourite one was set in the tower room). On the flip side, his writing plans had to be shelved. The moon sat in full bloom, and the dick threatened to transform.
“Good evening Ms. Rita!”
She must have been in her early thirties, or may be even the late twenties. Reserved by nature and by attire, Ms. Rita had often interacted with him in the past. On top of that, Dobbin had hours of sightseeing experience – observing the bumps poking her shirt, and the cleavage that made an appearance on specific days, and from specific angles. His spot was perfect for such reconnaissance trips.
“I guess we are both having a not-so-good holiday season,” she said with a laugh. Dobbin bent forward casually to steal a glance at her cleavage area. Not one of his lucky days!
He explained his problem.
“Can’t help you dear,” she said in an apologetic tone, “The office rooms are all closed, the drawers locked. And that digital renovation drive did away with everything pen and paper! Damn they even replaced the fifty year old wooden reading tables. All those scribbles and etches, decades worth of memories! Gone!”
“The charm is gone!” she said shaking her head, “You could use the computers though.”
“There’s no charm in that.”
Dobbin returned back to his spot. Minutes later, he found the assistant librarian, walk up and take the seat in front of him. He always knew she had an attractive figure!
“How’s it going?”
“Too many ideas, too small a head,” he told her. “I am actually working on this story about a character called The Wretch. I saw her in a dream. Now I’m trying to take it forward.”
“Interesting. Maybe I should help. You see that golden fountain pen inside the casing … kept for display? I will get that for you.”
“Whoa! Thanks a lot. And where do –”
“You write on my skin,” she cut him short. Dobbin’s mouth fell open.
And so they began.
The palms. Then the fingers. She did flinch when the first stroke poked at her skin. From then on, she looked away impassively. When Dobbin got done with the hands, he looked up at her.
“Ms. Rita.”
She awoke with a start. And then right on cue, the sweatshirt was lost to reveal a loose white sleeveless top underneath. Simultaneously, some exotic perfume hit the air, and his olfactory nerves. Dobbin felt his dick knock, and again!
Half-way through the arm, and nearing closer to her shoulder, and that beauty bone, Dobbin realized he was repeating the same three lines over and over again. Ms. Rita sat by him, staring blankly at a spot in the distance, breathing slow and deep. Dobbin bent forward and pushed his nose into her armpit.
“What are you doing?”
“Does that tickle?” he shot back, immediately replacing his nose with the fingers.
“Don’t get any ideas!” she said with a grin.
“It’s impossible not to get any!” Shit! Did he just say that out loud?
She smirked. But kept quiet.
It was the turn of the feet now, and then the legs. Ms. Rita started folding her pyjamas; Dobbin helped her pull those up till the knee. The legs were slender and smooth, the feet soft and sensitive. No wonder Dobbin spent an extra few minutes teasing that gentle arch of her feet, varying the pressure on the pen, as well as the speed of writing. At one point, she let out a hysterical sigh, and Dobbin felt she had orgasmed. But Ms. Rita was holding on.
“Where now?” he asked.
“I think” she said, “You should take the back now.”
“And I think” he said carefully, “You’ll need to lose your top then … Ms. Rita.”
She stood up suddenly, took a good look around the floor, and then turned to face Dobbin.
“It’s your lucky day.” Swish!
Ms. Rita settled flat on the table – bra-trapped boobs pushed against the wood. Dobbin sat by her and began exploring her back, a mole here, a mole there, and the warm skin of a woman. He nearly rushed through the act this time; waiting in palpitation for the next.
“These guards, they don’t come inside, do they?” he asked as Ms. Rita turned on the table.
“Naah! Except under exceptional circumstances,” saying this she undid her booby-trapped bra and leapt back on to the table.
“OH MY MY!” Dobbin shrieked, then stood with his hands up. “I need some time… or … or I’ll burst.”
