It was last Thursday, I think. I am not certain, because I have tried to forget the whole thing. Yet, the memory lingers like the perfume of an annoying, old lady; so, I have decided to unburden myself in the hope that I will be freed of it. Most likely, I will merely spread it like a flu.
But I never liked you much anyway.
As I said, it was Thursday. I had just left the mega-plex book store with a fresh copy of the "Story of O' to replace the one that I...uh...dropped in the bathtub, the latest Alan Dean Foster novel, and a double latte when I decided to visit that little used book store that denny told us about to see if I could maybe find some James Blish or maybe one of those James Tiptree, Jr. novels that I have been meaning to get.
From the outside, it looked like any of a million used book stores, which is better than okay. Form the inside, it looked like any of a million used book stores, which is better than okay. You've seen what I mean of course, worn wooden floor, cobbled together shelves filled with the standard mix of books that no one would every really want to read mixed with the books that you want, but everyone else thinks that no one would every want to read. Here and there, I saw the odd stack of old hard bound books, few with the old dust cover the rest without.
I liked the place.
But it seemed empty, as if I were the only soul inside the four walls. Usually, someone as old and worn as the books would be sitting behind the counter ready to discuss some unimportant fact on literature or help find that out of print resource. Even the required book store cat was missing. For some reason, I felt as if I had stepped into an episode of Star Trek (original).
Now, I have watched enough television to know that I should have shouted a hello into the store. I have yet to see anyone do that in real life, however, and I am bit a of a rebel in that regard (though the ex-fiancée would say a mindless twit). I just walked in and went to the shelf marked science to see if there was any interesting geology books or only the old, boring Geological Survey publications on gravel production.
Passing on the reviews of gravel production, I went down the end of the aisle with the purpose of looking for the SF paperbacks. I didn't find them.
Instead, I found a little old lady with a fish.
I can't say that either was attractive. I have never felt the fondness for koi that some people have developed, and the particular example of decorative carp that I was staring at left a lot to be desired. It was orange with white splotches across its two-foot long and very, very fat frame. And if you are imagining long whiskers, stop it. It's a carp not a catfish, okay, jeez!
The old lady was your standard bookstore lady, thin, white hair in a bun, and glasses. She only left the ideal in that she totally lacked in clothing. Not a stitch covered her pale, wrinkled skin so that her sagging breasts were clearing in view as a reminder that gravity is not our friend. She conceded to modesty only be holding the fish in front of her genitalia. Considering that the poor pisces was pointing head first, it was not much of a concession, especially, when one realized what it was doing.
Yes, that.
Don't make that face, you weren't actually there.
I was, and it was worse than you can imagine. The over grown minnow was doing the old suck and gape on the old woman clit as she held it against her pussy. Her own head was thrown back in pleasure with her eyes closed. I could only stare in shock as she softly moaned out.
Now this is the worst part, as the fish continued to nibble at her she finally said something intelligible.
"Oh, mommy's little fishy is making mommy feel so good," she moaned in baby talk as if the fish understood, which it couldn't seeing as how its brain was nothing more than a knot to keep its spinal cord from unraveling. "Oh, mommy feels so good. Mommy feels so good. Oh, mommy is about to cum."
And I was about to leave. Honest, I was. And I did.
I was in such a hurry to leave that bookstore that I almost missed hearing the woman's squeals of relief as the fish finished it duty and she orgasmed into its mouth. I even spilt some of my latte on myself, which left a wet spot on my pants.
At least, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
© 2001 Kenny N Gamera