There is a particular way in which Cecilia’s belly hangs when she’s on all fours. A slow beautiful double curve from rib to navel and c-section, it gives soft and fleshy emphasis to the breadth between her hip-bones and leads the eye to the soft inviting triangle of her muff, and the slotted gap between her thighs. To my certain measurement, this gap is precisely three fingers broad.
Sacred geometry, this. I know exactly, intimately, the spaces, lines, the planes, the domes of her. The palm-finger-skin ratios. My hands, my tongue have parsed each radius, each chord, diameter. Surveyed with careful handspans, she is triangles, here firm, here soft, or bony, muscular – a kaleidoscope of scents, sensations, tumbling inward to her damp hypotenuse.
Today she has an engineering problem. He, Renner, is a bigger man than I. Instrument size – however delicious that may be – is not the only issue. He is taller, too. And embracing him she is delightfully overwhelmed, bent backwards, towered over. A blissful discomfort in her bent neck and the swift hard nudging against her navel, the slight bloom of stress at the base of her spine, the wiry rasp of hair against eager heated nipple. Ordinarily, she’d either drop to knee and take him in her mouth, or scoot up on the desk, or straddle him on a chair. Not today though, today she wants to be taken hard, bent over, fucked as deep as he can go, face down, arse up.
They’ve tried before, but even in her best ever heels the geometry doesn’t work for long, and out he pops, his long slick tusk slipping, slapping, sliding in between her buttocks, gaining her only a frustrated slap.
But today she’s given it some thought, and sweet librarian, she found her answer in her books.
She can feel his eagerness in the slick cockhead that rubs her stomach and the teeth that nip at her already bruising lips. Her own slickness grows and she feels the swell of her own need. He is already growling, full of want. Her own voice answers, dry grunts from her tight throat.
They are both mostly naked. He now wears only his opened shirt, stiff white broadcloth. It shimmers in the slow cool autumn light from the tall windows. His shirt and black silk socks. His suit trousers lie pooled next to her discarded dress, the figure eight of knickers, three feet from her eagerly flung bra. Cecilia wears only her slightly rumpled hold-ups. Thick and dark, Victorian almost, they emphasise and frame her palely beautiful thighs.
She pulls away from him, pushes him back with a firm finger on the tip of that eager cock. She turns and walks away, putting all of her delirium in her walk, a solemn tick-tock sexiness in the swing of rump, the stretch of thigh. A pale goddess against the book-cases, reflected fleetingly in the polished desk .
Hair still up, if somewhat mussed, glasses on, she thoughtfully peruses books. She’s chosen them already, but this is theatre, performance. She can feel it reach her audience, see it in his flushed face and the long strokes he gives himself, curved and hard, glistening pink and lavender in his clenching fist. She feels it too in the soaking heat between her thighs, the swell of plump flesh as she presses them together reaching up, or crossing them a little bending down.
Tall art history books are first. The Anglo Saxons, the Flowering of the Middle Ages, the Medicis. Then a layer more modern, Matisse, Schiele, Toulouse Lautrec. These she stacks in neat rows and layers on the end of her desk. A solid base, narrowing to a ridge of smaller hardback novels. Fanny Hill, Bad Behaviour, Written on the Body. She knows the precise angles and height she needs. Just as I can feel the exact shape of her in my hands as I write this, so is each angle, thrust and fulcrum of Renner’s pretty cock written on her, her hands, her mouth; her face and breast, thighs and belly and her hot spread cunt.
She has tried it out. The books selected and discarded, a cradle shimmed to perfection, bringing her spread knees just so, a perfect pelvic tilt. Yesterday she fucked herself with our glass dildo here. The bright blue veined crystal stand-in slapped and slid and rammed. She came hard against the leather spine of Fanny Hill, marking the binding with her musk.
I watched this dress rehearsal from her chair, and with one hand made my applause.
This afternoon, she stands back and surveys her work, her scaffold, her formwork. She can feel his gaze on the curves of her back, the bloom of his nearby heat. She looks her cradle over. Sees the dark pressed mark of her soaked self on the aris of the book. Beyond it she sees other marks. On her leather blotter, my outstretched, flung signature, last nights design approval.
Without a single glance behind she climbs up onto the desk and takes her stance, thighs spread and pelvis tilted, elbows set. Rests her forehead next to my scribbled pleasure, breathes me in, and waits for Renner’s cock.