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From: chiar0scuro@hotmail.com (Chiaroscuro)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: Sun, 6 Jun 2004 05:21:42 +0000 (UTC)
Subject: {ASSM} "The Yellow-Lighted Bookstore"   by Chiaroscuro
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Date: Sun,  6 Jun 2004 07:10:02 -0400
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The Yellow-Lighted Bookstore
by Chiaroscuro

(F-solo, m-solo, MMF, reluc, bondage; long)



First there were the dreams.

They began when Rohanna was no more than 17 or 18. At the time it was
still possible for a young American girl to lead a sheltered life;
most of what she knew came from books, and the books she read were
those that were suitable for a nice young lady to read. And if she was
curious about other things, well, those were simply not for her to
know, not yet or maybe not ever.

In this recurring dream, she'd find herself walking through a strange
part of a town she thought she knew, or maybe a dream town she'd never
seen before, usually at night and usually alone. Suddenly she'd
realize that she was just about to come upon a very familiar place.

She would just know that when she turned the next corner and entered
the next street, the bookstore would be there.

The anticipation would thrill her. In her dream she could feel the
excitement mount vertically, like one of those rides at the theme park
that haul you straight up to some breathtaking height and then drop
you.

Her pace would quicken, she'd round the corner, and there it was. The
bookstore, bathed in an unwholesome yellow glow, its storefront wide
open to the street like an arcade where unsavory youths might loiter.
Within, scores of waist-high bins held thousands of paperback books
jammed in side by side with only their chrome yellow spines showing.
All of them had yellow spines.

There was something about the look of the place that told her plainly
that she ought not to go in here, that it was not the sort of place
where a nice young lady would ever be seen.

She couldn't wait.

After the first couple of times that her dreams brought her there,
Rohanna knew exactly where to go. She passed swiftly through the main
room, brushing past the handful of customers browsing the stock of
conventional fiction, and made straight for the smaller room beyond.
She'd feel her pulse surge, her head go light. Yes, here! these! In
all their lurid yellow-backed glory, there they were. The bad books.
The books she was ravenous to see.

Even though the side room was dimly lit and there was no one near,
still she moved furtively, like a thief. She would snatch up two or
three of the books and hug them close to her chest so no one could see
what she had chosen. And then she would head for the door, pay for
them quickly, and leave as fast as she could walk without running.

In the next moment, Rohanna would be lying on a bed in a bedroom
somewhere, maybe her own or maybe just an unknown bedroom in a dream.
The suspense of waiting had magnified her appetite. Feverish with
excitement, she would open the first book. Yes, oh, yes, this was
it--a real book of really, truly, shamelessly naughty things! A sense
of unspeakable deliciousness swelled in her from the first word, the
first hint that forbidden acts were going to be shown, erotic
sensations described, naked bodies seen, the flesh of women exposed,
of men aroused, amazing in their wanton dress, riveting in their bold
nakedness. She would read hungrily, passionately, burning for the
moment of release that was about to come, that she knew would come,
that was coming with the very next page, that rising tide of sweet
saltiness rushing outward from her core. And then--as she turned the
page--

Gasping, she would awaken. The moment fled. The sensation soared,
faded, and then stopped. The release never came.

A sad little cry of loss escaped her throat as the vision died away.
The frustration and disappointment were a welling emptiness in her
that made her throb and clench somewhere below. What had she been
about to see? What would it have caused to happen in her? What, what?
Awake, she lay still, one hand at her chest, the other beneath her
pillow, so still and relaxed that she must have been unmoving for some
time while she dreamed.

She did not even know what else she might do with her hand that would
bring some relief. Rohanna did not learn how to pleasure herself until
she read about masturbation in a book that she sneaked from her
roommate's bookshelf when she was a college girl of 19.

             * * * * * * *

Twenty years later, Rohanna was no longer an innocent unaware. She
knew her way around her body and the things that men might do to it,
the things she might do to it herself, and the ways she might use it
to make a man wild. She considered herself an experienced woman. She'd
had two husbands and uncounted lovers and a couple of boyfriends that
might as well have been husbands. There'd been lingerie and toys,
drugs and high romance, and even true love, for as long as it lasted.

But there remained a hidden place she could never describe, a raw
wanting, a need for something that made her feel the way she had felt
in those dreams. A delivery on the secret promise that grew from her
dark unconscious so long ago.

Once in a while the dreams still came. But even without the dreams,
Rohanna had learned to take herself there in fantasy. Beyond all
reason, it aroused her to think about a place like that bookstore, the
place with the bad books. Especially when she had a little time for
herself privately.

She would imagine the nocturnal walk in the strange neighborhood the
way she'd dreamed it in her youth, a little sinister and unnerving,
and then the pulse-racing moment of knowing that the bookstore was
just around the corner. She would turn the corner and her excitement
would leap into the stratosphere, stopping her breath and nearly
blinding her. The arcade entrance, the yellow light, the yellow books,
and the certainty that she should not be there. Quickly, quickly, to
the back room, the forbidden books, the treasure snatched up, the
escape from the store. The bedroom where she could read the
maddeningly delicious words of lust and obscenity and carnal pleasure.
The moment when she turned the page--

Ah, her imagination failed her. She could never picture what was
written there. But she knew what to do with the hand now, and in her
state of panting readiness, she'd find her release in a minute or
less.

Over time, and with experience in the real world, her fantasy evolved.
The bins of paperbacks became shelves. The books became magazines, and
the magazines had pictures, glossy, raw, and fleshly.

And she was not alone.

Now, in her fantasy, she saw a man standing in front of the racks of
pornographic photo magazines. His back was to her and he was looking
at the covers, taking in the swollen lips, the massive breasts, the
glistening limbs in heightened color arrayed in various seductive
contortions. As she approached, he would select a magazine from the
rack. He would open it to a spread on which a sumptuous brunette
reclined, her full round breasts and her parted labia invitingly
exposed. The model would be one who really turned him on, and he would
linger and stare at the photo.

In her fantasy, Rohanna imagined the man's reaction to the photo. She
imagined the lascivious thoughts it triggered. She imagined him
thinking about what he wanted to do to the brunette, what he would do
if she were really offering herself to him. And she imagined him
thinking what he would probably do with the picture in the magazine
when he got it home.

She would hold back for just a moment, imagining the surge of arousal
sweeping over the man. Then, just as he was about to turn and head for
the counter to purchase the magazine, she would step forward and stand
beside him, turned just slightly to make sure the front of her body
fell well within the range of his peripheral vision. She would be
wearing something cut low in front, and under it a bra that pushed up
her large breasts and mounded them so alluringly that by the very
sight of them she excited herself.

He had to look. He had to. In this fantasy of hers, he had no will but
what she gave him.

Without glancing at him, she would run her left hand over her exposed
bosom, allowing two fingers to glide gracefully over the hollow of her
cleavage.

Now she would cup both her breasts in her hands and with her
fingertips pull the fabric of her blouse still lower, until it seemed
that with every breath they might spill over.

She would glance down now and see the bulging hardness in his pants.
She had become the object of his lustful imaginings. And it was her
pleasure to tease him a little.

She would press her palms against the sides of her breasts, forcing
them together and up. She would run her hands slowly down her sides to
her hips and stop at the hollow beneath her belly, her fingertips
pointing to the place where her legs met.

And now at last she would look at him, drinking in the hunger in his
face. The hunger that inflamed her. The hunger that fed her.

His features were indistinct and nondescript. The expression was all
she saw.

Turning fully to him with one hand resting lightly on her chest, she
would murmur, "Would you like to touch them?"

He would nod wordlessly, his face slack with desire.

"Come with me," she would say. And she would turn and walk away,
passing by the cashier and leaving a $20 on the counter without
looking at him. She could hear the man breathing heavily behind her.

She would lead him into a small back room with no windows and a single
dim lightbulb in the ceiling. The only furnishings besides a worn
carpet were an upholstered armchair, a low-backed wooden chair, a
small three-legged stool, and a tall kitchen stool. Shadows hugged the
corners.

She motioned him to the tall stool, and she turned the narrow-seated
wooden chair around so that she could straddle it and face him with
her arms squared across the back of it, her breasts resting on her
arms, displayed like a feast on a platter before the devouring eyes of
the man just two feet away. A man who would have paid just to look at
glossy shapes on paper. A man who was now ragingly hard for the sight
and feel of her three solid dimensions. Hard and throbbing, she could
see by the press of volume at his crotch. She stared at it frankly,
stretching the moment, making him wait a little longer, until his
whole body was taut to the point of pain. He gripped the edges of the
stool he sat on and clenched his teeth.

"You can touch me with one hand," she would say softly. "The other is
for you."

Not another second's delay. He'd rip the zipper open and expose his
fiery cock. He would grip it and stare at her voluptuous breasts. His
left hand would venture, trembling, toward her right breast, molding
to the shape of it. Then more boldly, running his palm over her
contours, drawing audible breaths and exhaling sharply. With his right
he stroked himself, the movements urgent, vehement, his whole body
pumping now to the rhythm of his need. She'd close her eyes and throw
back her head, chest out, listening, feeling. His rough touch
enveloped her breast, lifting it, covering it, palpating it, and she
moved into his feverish motion while his pumping rhythm accelerated
and gasps and groans burst from his throat. Suddenly she'd feel his
whole body leap toward her and hear the stool fall. His hand scooped
and supported her whole full breast, his lips gripped her nipple, his
panting breath coming in hot, short gusts as he suckled and jerked.
The tempo of his rhythm skyrocketed. He was over the verge, about to
blast.

She could do anything with him now.

Rohanna adored this moment of her fantasy. She ached for it. Sometimes
she thought she lived for it.

Her own hand was busy, hot and busy from the time she whispered in her
mind to the nameless, featureless man, "The other is for you."

As she neared the peak of her own ecstatic frenzy, she never knew what
would happen when this moment came. It was as if she loosed her
imagination from itself, abdicated all control, let it reign. Eyes
closed tight, fingers expertly delivering pressure and friction, she
lost herself completely to the vision she'd created.

He would roar then, a great "ahhh" of release, and let go of her
breast as he rocked back and fell to his knees with the explosion of
his orgasm.

Or she would suddenly rear back and stand, letting his chin strike the
wooden chair back, his eyes startle, and his helpless right hand tear
on toward the inevitable while she watched coolly and he melted down.

Or she would tilt the back of the chair toward him and push down on it
so fast and hard that she thrust the chair between her legs, behind
her, and stood up, pressing herself toward him and cupping her breasts
to force his straining cock between them. And he would drive it
against her breastbone as the hot come erupted.

Whatever happened at this moment brought her to the peak of her
delirium. And put her over.

Nothing in her real life came close.

She had tried other scenarios, too. The art class and the model. The
substitute teacher. The long-haul truck driver. But nothing did it for
her like this imaginary man crazed with lust at the sight of her
overflowing D cups in the sordid back room of the yellow-lighted
bookstore.

Rohanna did not ask herself any questions about her fantasy. She did
not consider where it had come from or what it said about her, why it
aroused her supremely or how it fulfilled a desire that starved in her
otherwise. She did not care. She only knew that somehow this dizzy
experience of solitary passion came the nearest to answering the
hunger of the unseen next page in the yellow book.

But one day she did ask herself, "What if?"

It came to her, as if by stealth and without conscious intent, that
she could play this out.

             * * * * * * *

Rohanna planned carefully and methodically. She knew the part of her
city where the adult bookstores lurked. She'd never been inside any of
them, but she'd visited another one once on a trip to San Francisco
with a boyfriend. He'd dared her to go along and pick out some toys.
Nervous and embarrassed, she was nevertheless too madly curious to
refuse.

One still Sunday afternoon, out doing errands alone for once, she went
out of her way and drove through the lower end of a main drag in town,
looking for an X-rated store close to a side street where she could
park in relative obscurity.  Cruising by slowly, she spotted a
scruffy-looking little shop with blackened windows, one door down from
a bar on the corner: Roy's Adult Books. Magazines. Videos. Must be 18
to enter.

She turned right to scout the side street. A driveway on the right led
into a small partially paved parking lot that braced the rear
entrances of the bar, a store that sold leathers and gear to bikers, a
comic book trader, and an appliance store. Perfect. There were also
several unmarked doors and an assortment of dumpsters. On the left,
across the street from the parking lot, a couple of two-story
apartment houses had a shut look about them, as if they had their
faces turned away.

She drove around the block and passed the shop slowly a second time.
Posted hours showed on the door large enough for her to read: 11 a.m.
to 1 a.m. The door opened, and a young man in a denim jacket with the
collar turned up scuttled out and made for the entrance of the bar, a
flat parcel in a black plastic bag folded and tucked under his arm.
The interior glimpsed momentarily showed nothing but a dim yellow
glow. Her heart thudded, and she knew she was really going to do it.

Now she had to wait for her opportunity. This could take some time.
Her boyfriend and housemate Cody knew everywhere she went and when and
for how long, and she seldom went out without her daughter. She had to
get away unnoticed, and not just unnoticed but dressed for the part.

While waiting for the right moment, Rohanna chose her disguise,
carefully, bit by bit, right down to the last detail, and hid it all
away in a black tote bag, back behind the Christmas linens in a closet
that no one ever touched but her. Each item was something she bought
new, just for the purpose, never seen on her before, never to be seen
again. The divorced mother of a six-year-old, she could not afford to
be recognized by anyone. Any taint on her character might jeopardize
her custody arrangements.

Rohanna had read enough in books and was clever enough to understand
that if she tried to look inconspicuous, she would probably only call
attention to herself. Her inexperience and her nervousness would give
her away. Instead she decided to dress in such a flamboyant way that
anyone who saw her would be looking at her getup and not really at
her. No one who knew her as Melanie's mother would think for a moment
that it could be she in that slutwear.

After two months, she saw her chance.  Ordinarily either Melanie or
Cody or both were with her wherever she went except to work, to run
minor errands, and to make the occasional shopping trip. Expeditions
for her costume had to be worked smoothly into odd errands that she
managed alone without arousing suspicion. But when Melanie's
first-grade teacher asked for parents to help with a lunchtime cooking
project, Rohanna volunteered.

She took a vacation day from work that Tuesday and appeared at her
daughter's school promptly at 11, bringing everything she was supposed
to bring, and put in her hour and a half with several other parents,
helping the children make pancakes and fruit salad and then clean up
afterward. All the while her mind was on what she was about to do, and
the excitement was building in direct contrast to the innocent
innocuousness of her present activity. She saw herself, a picture of
the perfect mom in an apron, smiling to herself, stirring pancake
batter amidst two dozen rowdy, enthusiastic kids, her mind so full of
lewd thoughts and technicolor images that she almost thought they
might project onto the visible screen of her irises where anyone who
looked at her could see them. Butterflies in her stomach, a nonstop
tingling in her pussy, standing demurely at the counter slicing
bananas and strawberries while the children washed and plucked grapes
and sectioned oranges. Several times a giddy laugh rose up
uncontrollably in her chest and she had to let it out. The teacher
spared her a quick glance but was too busy to do more, and the
clamoring children didn't notice.

The minute her duty was done, Rohanna kissed Melanie and was off home.
Out came the tote bag from its hiding place. She already had on the
silky black panties to make her feel secretly sexy. Now she donned the
black push-up bra and checked her profile in the mirror. Mmm, wow. She
ran her hand over her curves and felt her breath quicken. She could
almost stop here, take herself to the bedroom, and play through her
favorite scene without fear of interruption. But no, this was her
chance, the real thing, and not a story in a book or in her head. In a
little while she would show herself to a strange man and take him with
her--

Her mind went blank with fright. At once her doubts flew in like
darting birds of prey. What the hell was she doing? A fantasy was one
thing, but she could get into real trouble now, trouble of so many
different kinds that she probably hadn't thought of them all. Was it
worth it?  Was it worth the risk? Was she crazy? What if, what if,
what if--?

A dream image flooded her eyes. She was walking down the street. She
turned the corner. There was the yellow-lighted bookstore. Inside were
forbidden things that would take her to the edge of her senses and
beyond. She couldn't turn away now, not even for a little danger. The
danger made it doubly real, the reality made it infinitely compelling.
The irresistible wickedness of what she was about to do drove out all
other thought. Quickly, now, quickly. Before she lost her nerve.

The low-cut black spandex top that barely covered the bra. The bitchy
tight black stretch Capri pants. A long blue plaid flannel shirt to
cover up until she was away from the house. The rest in the tote bag,
slung over her shoulder. No purse. Two separately folded twenty-dollar
bills in the right pocket of her pants, and an extra ten just in case.
Kleenex tissues, two, just in case. Driver's license deep in the other
pocket. House key and car key on a ring in her hand. Out the door and
on her way. On her way.

She parked in the rear parking lot beside a dumpster and close to an
unmarked brown metal door that by her calculation probably belonged to
the bookstore. Thinking but not quite thinking, this must be the other
way out. Just in case.

She looked around. Not much activity in the parking lot, thank
goodness. Somebody in a white pickup parked facing away from her was
smoking a cigarette and listening to a C&W radio station. A couple of
guys at the far end were unloading large boxes from a semi and
trolleying them into the service entrance of the appliance store.
There was a scattering of unoccupied vehicles. Nobody was paying any
attention to her.

Out of the tote bag came black patent leather shoes with
two-and-a-half-inch heels, square toes, and ankle straps. She put them
on. Using the car's rear-view mirror, she applied dark eyebrow pencil,
heavy iridescent blue eye shadow, and bright red lipstick. She had
never worn red lipstick in her life, and the tube was going in the
trash with everything else as soon as this adventure was over. She
wrapped her shoulder-length brown hair in a tight knot and clipped it
with a barrette, and then she covered it with a black knit beret
pulled down far enough to completely conceal her hairline all the way
around. For the final touch, she added a pair of long, dangling
rhinestone earrings, three inches of cheap clip-on sparkle that would
draw eyes away from her face.

And then she shed the blue flannel shirt and stepped out of the car.
Her pulse was pounding now, blood rushing in her ears, but the wanton
being she had just let loose would not be stopped.

She walked as fast as she dared on the flimsy high heels, a cheap
Wal-Mart purchase for one-time use, consciously lengthening her stride
and turning her toes out. She had read in a detective story that your
walk could betray you through the best disguise, and she was
determined to conceal it. Across the ankle-bending uneven asphalt
surface, cracked and pocked with potholes, up the side street, around
the corner to the left, past the bar, with a jumble of TV audio and
voices leaking out the door, and she was there. Roy's Adult Books.
Magazines. Videos. Must be 18 to enter.

She entered.

The light had a quality that seemed somehow to darken the room. It was
less yellow than gray. At a swift glance, the place looked empty of
customers, but aisles of magazine racks obscured her view of most of
the shop. A surge of anxiety clouded her mind, but she quelled it with
the thought of what she had come here to do. Now, if ever, was her
chance to make her fantasy real. Picturing to herself her own
appearance, the full effect of which she had not even seen in a
mirror, she was so enthralled by her wicked daring that she could
almost taste the smell of her own wet pussy on her fingers.

A tall, thin, pimply-faced youth with pale orange hair and no evidence
of a chin sat behind the register at the counter just beside the door
and glanced up as she came in. He wore a faded gray sweatshirt and tan
corduroy pants. He gave her a skeptical look but said nothing.
Surprisingly, an older woman occupied a chair in the far corner behind
the counter, leafing through a copy of "People" magazine. She did not
look up. She had a gaunt face, crooked, protruding teeth, a weak chin,
and straight, thin gray hair. She was wearing pink polyester slacks
and a grimy pale blue knit sweater with little pills of fuzz all over
it.

Rohanna strode to the counter and spoke to the youth in a low voice.
"How much to use your back room for a few minutes?"

He scowled. "No back room," he said, frankly suspicious.

"Just fifteen minutes," she said. "I'm not selling."

"Ten, but only for customers," he said, and she didn't know if he
meant ten minutes or ten dollars, but it didn't matter. "And no
selling, no shit. We don't want to get busted. I watch from here," he
said, nodding toward a small blue-screened monitor that she could now
see on the table below counter level. He gave her a greasy little
smirk.

The old woman shot her a throwaway glance and went back to her
magazine.

Rohanna slid her fingertips into her pockets and turned to the first
aisle of magazines. B&D, spanking, not her thing. An end-aisle wire
rack of paperbacks, all colors, trashy artwork on the covers. She
picked out one titled "Wild Times in TVland," thinking it had
something to do with television. Turning into the next aisle, she
could see through to the display of plastic-wrapped packages on the
far left wall. She saw the back of a slim, long-legged girl in a
ponytail, wearing a white tank top and a tight chartreuse skirt that
was shorter than it was wide. Her legs were bare and muscular, and she
wore high-heeled tan sandals. She appeared to be engrossed in studying
a display of shrink-wrapped dildos. When she turned, Rohanna saw
pointy little breasts that had to be fake and an unmistakable five
o'clock shadow.

Rohanna moved up the next aisle of magazines and saw that she was in
the gay porn section. Now, that was a thought. Lots of hard cocks.
Still awed and excited by her own willful nerve, she picked up two of
them. Saw the price, put one back.

Still no man looking at magazines, no one to show herself to or tease
into following her. This did not seem to be going the way it was
supposed to. Her arousal high was beginning to fade.

She decided to stroll around the whole store and see if other
customers were  there. Maybe early afternoon was just the wrong time.
She walked all the way to the back before she saw anyone else.

Two men leaned against the frame of a door with a high reinforced
glass window and a sign that said "Employees Only." One of them, about
thirty-five, had black hair combed straight back, an olive complexion
pocked with ancient acne scars, and hard, dissolute eyes. He had large
hands and the six-foot build of an athlete gone to seed. He wore a
dark red shirt and black jeans. The other was an older man, short,
stout, gray-haired, with an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth and
a sheaf of business envelopes sticking out of the pocket of his pale
gray shirt. Both of them stood with arms folded, deep in murmured
conversation, until the younger one spotted her and telegraphed the
other with a barely perceptible nod toward her. Both fell silent and
watched her. The younger man ran his gaze up and down her figure and
up again to her chest, where it stopped and held. The barest hint of a
smile stretched his thin lips. The older man grinned openly around his
cigar.

Something in her lurched violently. She felt impaled on the pock-faced
man's leering gaze as on a barbed wire fence. Suddenly she was hotly
conscious of every muscle and nerve in her body. It was almost as if
she had forgotten how to walk, how to move. She wobbled on her cheap
high heels, stumbled a little, strove to get out of his range of view.
All desire had left her now, and all she wanted to do was get out of
the store.

The youth at the register rang up her purchases with agonizing
deliberation and put them in a black plastic bag. "Twenty-one fifty."
Out of the corner of her eye she saw the pock-faced man coming up the
side aisle. She fished one twenty and the ten out of her pocket,
slapped them hastily on the counter, snatched up the bag, and made for
the door. The youth shouted, "Hey, your change," but she was gone.

Was he coming after her? She didn't dare look back. What an idiot
she'd been to think she wouldn't attract unwanted attention! Full
speed now, shaky on her tilting heels, hurrying to the car. The beret
came loose and she tugged at it with one hand while with the other,
plastic bag looped over her wrist, she gave the front of her spandex
top enough of a yank to cover her cleavage a little. Past the bar. The
door opened, two or three men came out in a fog of beer breath, one
whistled, one growled, "Hey, bitch," she kept on going. Around the
corner, down the side street, into the parking lot. Just a short
distance across the warped and broken asphalt to safety. Her car
waiting there. Key in her hand, ready.

The unmarked brown door at the rear of the building swung open. The
pock-faced man and the youth from behind the counter came out. Stopped
almost in front of her car, looked at her coming toward them. The
pock-faced man smiled in a way that chilled her. Oh, God, she had to
get out of here! She couldn't even kick off the shoes and run
barefoot. The ankle straps. Panicky, breathless, she ran anyway. Her
right ankle turned, and she went down.

The key ring sprang from her hand and landed several feet away.

Before she could clamber to her feet, he was there. The black-haired,
pock-faced man. With one hand he scooped up her key ring, and with the
other he seized her upper arm, not gently, and yanked her to her feet.
She was unhurt, though the knee she had landed on was abraded through
a tear in her pants. It bled a little, but not enough to matter.

"You okay?" His voice was as harsh to her ear as his grasp to her arm.

"I'm fine," she said angrily. "Give me my keys."

"Better make sure you're all right," he said. He began dragging her
toward the building. She struggled, free arm outstretched, straining
toward her keys, but his six-foot armspan kept them well beyond her
reach. "Get the door, Scott," he called to the pale youth. Scott
one-handed a large ring of keys on a chain and unlocked the door, held
it ajar and watched the pock-faced man approach, hauling Rohanna with
a bruising grip on her upper arm.

"No!" she shouted, and instantly muffled her own shout. The appliance
trailer was gone, but the white pickup was still there. The last thing
she needed was for somebody to call the cops and have them find her
like this. "No!" in a whispered shout. "I'm fine, just give me my
keys. I want to go."

"Not if you're hurt," growled the man. "I'm not gonna fuck with any
lawsuit."

She stumbled as he hustled her to the door, moving faster than the
clumsy shoes would let her go, and the beret fell off. Neither man
even glanced where it fell.

"Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God," she screamed in her mind. "They're going
to rape me, they're going to kill me and throw me in one of those
dumpsters, they're not even going to leave my driver's license on me
to identify the body, my daughter will grow up never knowing what
happened to me."  Whimpering with fear, she struggled to keep her head
and not start to cry. The more helpless she appeared, the more likely
they'd be to hurt her, she felt sure.

Scott held the door wide for them as they entered, and pulled it shut
behind him.

"Hee hee," he giggled in a thin, excited tenor, "some cunt you got
there, Roy."

She forced herself to stop whimpering and keep her cool. Better not to
give them any reason to get rough. At the first chance, she'd run for
it, keys or no keys.

They were in a narrow, dark hall. At the other end was a door with a
high reinforced glass window through which Rohanna could see the
grayish yellow light of the bookstore. A utility closet stood open on
her right, a gray mop and bucket and a grimy sink visible in the
shadows. On the left a door with the label "Restroo" on a bent tin
plaque stood slightly ajar, concealing a smelly room whose interior
Rohanna hoped never to see. Roy dragged her hurriedly toward an
unmarked door farther down on the right, halfway to the employee door
that led back into the store.

Scott scurried ahead and opened the door inward into the side room.
Roy thrust her in ahead of him, where she staggered in the dark and
fell sharply against a piece of furniture. Lost her balance and fell
to one side, landing awkwardly on a low couch that gave off a cloud of
malodorous dust as her weight compressed its creaking springs. She
felt the barrette come loose, and half her hair tumbled around her
shoulders.

The light flicked on, a single dim bulb overhead. Rohanna glanced
around the room. She was in a twelve-by-sixteen cinderblock enclosure
without windows. In addition to the lumpy couch of no recognizable
color, there were a small table, a metal folding chair, and a
half-size refrigerator. A threadbare rug of Kmart quality lay in front
of the couch. Steel shelving against one wall was stacked with
cardboard boxes that appeared to contain merchandise:  Vivid Visions
Publishing, they said, with a large logo-style V2. A sagging box sat
open on the floor in one corner, and she could see that it was full of
chains.
 
Mounted at three points on the ceiling, angled toward the center, were
small security cameras.

"Mama's watching," said Scott with a grin, and giggled.

Scott stood, arms folded, back to the door, staring at her as a dog
watches the mistress preparing a roast for the oven. Roy dropped her
keys on the table, out of her reach, and advanced toward her. She
stood up hastily, struggling for balance on the high heels as she rose
from the low seat. Roy pushed her back down and stood in front of her,
his closeness barring another attempt to get to her feet. Clad in
black jeans, his crotch was just about at her eye level.

Nothing outstanding there, she noticed with some surprise.

Leaning against the door, Scott was making up for it, beginning a slow
hump against his slack left wrist with a shockingly tall peak in his
tan cords.

"Let's see those, bitch," said Roy, grabbing the plastic bag from her
wrist.

He pulled out the "TVland" paperback and laughed, a rude, mocking
laugh that made her feel slimed. "You into this shit? Cross-dressers?
I don't think so. You see Sally out there, she turn you on?" Rohanna
felt herself blush and hated it for revealing her naivete. "Or maybe
those tits ain't real," he challenged, dropping the books and making a
grab for them with both hands.  She raised her arms to protect her
chest. Roy seized her wrists and jerked them to a crossed position,
straitjacket style, beneath her breasts, abruptly raising them to
bulging exposure in a crude parody of her imagined seductive posture.

"Hee hee," giggled Scott. "They're real." He was still rocking and
bumping his stiff pecker against his wrist in a slow, rhythmic grind.

Roy dropped Rohanna's hands, and she instinctively crossed them over
her nearly naked bosom. He picked up the plastic bag and extracted the
magazine. The high-gloss cover showed a closeup of the lower half of a
bearded face, open mouth about to receive an impossibly huge cock
being served up manually by its owner.

"So you like the hard cocks," he said. "Show her what you got, Scott."
He stepped aside.

Scott ambled over and unzipped his corduroy pants. He pulled out his
cock and displayed it inches from her nose. It was long, thin, knobby
at the tip, hard as the devil, and very red, with a wispy ruff of
ginger hair at the base and a definite cant to the left.

Rohanna thought it was just about the most disgusting thing she had
ever seen. She turned her face away and shut her eyes.

Roy bent over the arm of the couch, seized her roughly by the hair,
and turned her head toward Scott, who was now giving himself long,
slow strokes and giggling.

"Open your mouth, bitch," ordered Roy.

"I want to see them tits," said Scott.

Roy pulled her hair harder, yanking her head back, and with his free
hand pinned one arm behind her.

And now, midway among the cameras, she saw two hooks on the ceiling.
She gasped. Those chains!

Scott's left hand snaked out toward her. She could not fight him off
with one hand.  He gave a sharp downward pull at the neckline of her
spandex top and bra, ripping the top and baring her breasts.

"Sweet," said Scott, and fondled them crudely while continuing to
stroke his ugly prick, a little faster now.

"Open your mouth, bitch," Roy repeated, louder this time.

"No!" She strained to turn her head away. And now she saw the hard
protrusion in Roy's black jeans. Her eyes widened.

"That's right," he said, "I'm next. And it won't be a blow job for
me."

In one sudden, swift move, Roy released her hair and swung a leg
around her back so that he sat down behind her on the couch,
straddling her rear, with both feet on the floor. He pinned her arms
behind her, causing her back to arch and thrusting her naked chest
forward. His hard-on pressed against her ass like a wooden club. Scott
grabbed her hair with his free left hand and pulled her head back so
violently that it forced her mouth open, while with his right he
pumped his long, revolting cock toward her face. Roy kept time,
thumping her rhythmically from behind.

"No!" she screamed. "Get away from me!"

She felt Roy's hot breath in her left ear. His hoarse whisper was more
menacing than his shouts. "Then what the fuck did you come in here
for, bitch, in your dime-store slut costume and your fucking mother
tits?"

He wrenched her arms back until she cried out in pain, and Scott
grunted and thrust his red skinny stinking pecker in her mouth and
loosed a stream of come.

Rohanna gulped and gagged. Revulsion overcame her. Vomit rose in her
throat so fast and hot that she did not even have time to utter a
warning cry. One choking clutch of her gut and out it came, all over
Scott's hand, his cock, his cords, his shoes, and her bare breasts.
Pancakes and fruit salad.

"Oh, GOD," he yelped, and leaped back. He shook his dripping, steaming
hand. "Oh, GOD! Fuck!" And slapped her face with it, hard.

Roy dropped her arms, and she pressed her hands to her mouth, too
late. He slid out from behind her and looked down at her, at the mess
on the floor, and at the front of Scott.

"You're fucking gross," he said, his face twisted in disgust. 

A river of foul name-calling and curses poured from Scott's mouth as
he tried to shake off the sour, half-digested splatter without
touching it.

Rohanna dipped her fingers into her pocket, extracted two neatly
folded tissues, and mopped her chin and her chest. Then she dropped
the tissues on the floor.

She stood up with all the dignity she could command. She gathered her
keys from the table. Both Roy and Scott stared at her, but neither
moved to stop her. Hand on the doorknob, she turned back with an
expression of supreme contempt and spoke with the precise, deliberate
enunciation of a schoolteacher: "Go fuck yourselves," she said, and
left, closing the door sharply behind her.

A torrent of cursing and shouting erupted inside the room, but no one
opened the door.

In the dim hallway, she found the janitor's closet and ran the faucet
in the blackened sink. She cupped her hands in the stream and applied
the water to her face and chest to rinse away most of the vomit and
come. She clutched the shreds of her garment together at her throat
and went out into the sunshine.  The white pickup was gone, and a
couple of guys were getting into a green SUV parked right behind the
bar.

No longer afraid or needing to run, she paused long enough to pull off
the shoes and one earring and throw them into the dumpster as she went
by. She'd lost the other earring somewhere along the line, but she
didn't care. The knit beret lay on the asphalt beside the dumpster,
and she threw that in too.

At home, shaky but clear-headed, she stuffed the remains of her
costume into the tote bag, shoved it back into the closet, and took a
long, soapy shower. Tomorrow she'd drive by a neighborhood sandwich
shop and heave the bag and all its contents into the giant dumpster
there.

Her face was red where it had been slapped. Steeling herself, she
slapped the other cheek as hard as she could. Asymmetry was too
difficult to explain. Two red cheeks, an allergic reaction maybe, or
an afternoon gardening in the sun. Cody wouldn't dig any deeper than
that.

The bruises on her upper arm would be harder to explain, but she'd
think of some excuse to cover them up. No one would even notice the
scrape on her knee.

Finally, clean and basically unharmed despite her frightening ordeal,
Rohanna poured herself a glass of white wine and sat down in her
favorite big, soft chair to think.

The fantasy that had made her so hot had been absurd. The idea that
she could play it out in real life was worse, dangerously worse. She
must have been out of her wits to think the images she toyed with in
her head to arouse herself were like any kind of reality. To think
that she could walk into a smut shop and pick up a man who would go
crazy for the sight of her adequate but unremarkable bustline and that
somehow his enthralled response to her would fulfill an old hunger so
deep she did not know its shape or name. The mysteries of her inner
being seemed darker now than ever. The wanton self that she hadn't
known was in her seemed alien now, as if she had been possessed by a
stranger.

And yet, bruised, scared, sickened, still she had done it. She had
been daringly wicked--how she had looked, how she had dressed, what
she had done--

She loved it that she had done that. In spite of everything, she loved
it.

And if it had gone a little bit differently . . . 

Like the dreams, the dreams, the dreams. The dreams that carried her
to the edge of rapture. The books with yellow covers, the delirious
sensations they revealed. The stories that almost took her away in a
thrill past belief. And then--the page she never got to read, that
left her never fully satisfied.

If it had gone a little bit differently. Without a conscious choice,
she closed her eyes and walked into the store of her imagination.
There were the magazines. There was the man, tall, with black hair,
his back to her. There was her luscious bosom and his involuntary
response. He turned toward her, and she saw the face, hungry, wanting.
Saw the pock-marked face. It was Roy, and he was at her mercy.

She smiled, a smile of conquest. She was back in control.

Rohanna's hand was between her legs, and she was about to sail aloft.

She stopped short and opened her eyes. The unfinished story. Now she
knew what to do, the answer plain at last. Another use for that hand,
my girl.

Rohanna got up and walked to her bedroom. Melanie was going to a
friend's house after school today, and Cody would not be home from
work for hours yet. What better time? What better way to use her
precious privacy?

She sat down at her desk and looked at the bookcase that stood beside
it, a set of wooden shelves that ran to the ceiling, crammed full of
books she had read, books she had treasured since childhood, books
she'd bought or been given as an adult, books she'd loved and kept,
books she still meant to read. She thought about all the many kinds of
books and stories she'd read and the many she had yet to read, and she
thought especially about the stories she had in her--stories she'd
often wished she could tell.

She searched in her desk drawer and came up with a blank notebook. A
notebook with a yellow cover. She picked up a pencil and opened the
notebook.

Vivid visions.

Slowly she began to write.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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