I moved through the next days in a daze, catching the memory of that hour and trying to resolve if it was a dream or a nightmare, sleeping or awake. It made no sense and I could not share it with anyone for surely they would think I was mad. I was mad, mad with the vision of her, in a mad maze.
As more days passed I found myself eating to build up my strength. At night my cock would rise and waken me from dreams of smoke and brimstone, hot and cold, shivering and sweating. But I would not touch myself, I needed to keep the heat because she was so cold and had drained me. As more days passed, the vision faded to a memory and I thought a fever must have peaked that afternoon in the library, as she could not have been real.
Some two weeks later I was again in the library, again finishing a long day's research, and again unthinking went to my quiet place at the end of the stacks, at the end of the building. The afternoon was again drowsy and slow, the library lulled and quiet. As I was about to make myself comfortable I wondered what was on the top shelf, that my black and white vision had placed up so high on that day dream of madness or hallucination.
I expected to see a full shelf of material, maybe a set of dictionaries or reference books but instead found a series of bound leather volumes, each volume marked with a year and the month. There were a number of gaps in the series and I had no way of knowing which volume the dark librarian had put back - but obviously that was the explanation: the gaps were there because the material was being used by someone else for research, and nothing had been put back that day because she was not real. I shook my head at my strange train of thought, but reached for a volume anyway.
Climbing down from the steps I settled myself into the chair and opened the big journal. Inside I found it was a series of newspapers from the 1920s, rough black inked headlines and a feature photograph on the front page of each edition.
Flicking through the pages there were politicians and personalities from the city, names long forgotten but vaguely remembered - the university had been founded in those days and some of the older campus buildings would have been built in that era.
As I flicked through the newspapers I realised that there were several articles featuring the same names, the same family. Intrigued, I turned back until I found the first story which was accompanied by a small photograph of a family. The faces were small and blurred; it looked like a wealthy family with father and mother and two daughters. It was difficult to make out their ages or any clear features, but one of them was clearly a debutante.
"Grace, the eldest daughter of Mr and Mrs ___________ of Eastside, was introduced to society..." The girl was tall, well figured, her face half hidden under a wide brimmed hat, her long dark hair falling in a swirl around her shoulders, her hand resting on the shoulder of the younger girl, her sister. And in the faded unclear picture, I felt that this was my vision in the library - Grace. But how could this be, more than eighty years later?
As I read, I slowly came to realise that the library was again sheathed with a veil of silence. The noises of the building were muted, background voices were fading, and outside the window a flash of movement caught my eye. A brightly coloured lorikeet splayed its wings as it landed outside the window... and behind me a shadow swirled against the wall and my heart stopped and thumped down into my chest as my madness whirled around me again and she was there.
That same exquisite face but somehow now surrounded in a blaze of colour, extraordinary vivid green eyes, swirls of iridescent blue and green shimmered around her body, long slender legs and long body slinked in front of me. But how could this be?
It was her, but somehow not - her presence before had been voluptuous and curves, now she was long and lean and slender but still undeniably the same essence of woman. I could not imagine someone so different yet so much the same. But I was numbed and knew what to expect but could not know what to expect as she was the same woman but so different.
She moved the tome of papers away from my lap and sat herself upon me, luscious long legs stretching to the floor, her long body, long and lean sheathed in multi-coloured iridescent silk, stretched against mine; and she placed the palm of her hand against my lips. I shuddered as her hand was cold against my lips. But she slowly pressed one cold finger between my lips and turned my face to look at her. Her eyes were black and deep, and pierced my soul.
Silently, her eyes commanded me to kiss and caress her hand and palm and delicate wrist. It was then that I noticed a fine trace of veins and colour on her forearm - her veins blue and fine, and her skin was covered with a fine tracery of iridescent colour, like smoke had been tattooed onto her skin.
I touched my lips to her palm once again and began to caress and suck on her fingers as if they were small cocks, eager to be pulled straight and hard as they pulsed into my mouth. First one delicate little finger, fine and small, then each finger in turn pressed between my lips as if they were tasting my mouth and teasing my tongue, exploring my mouth as a honey bee seeks nectar, or as a leech seeks blood. I was repulsed and aroused simultaneously, my mouth as if it had a mind of its own was seeking out those long probing fingers and the delicate web of skin at the base of each one.
I sucked each long finger into my mouth and to the back of my throat, sucking down hard and nipping her flesh with my teeth. As I suckled on her fingers I felt each one warm, and then there were two. Two fingers now, forcing my mouth open more with a wider pole of flesh. As she suckled her fingers into her mouth I felt her other hand trace a line down my chest, pausing at each button of my shirt and popping each button free.
Soon enough I was bare to the belt of my jeans and her hand brushed firmly onto my roused cock trapped inside the denim. She gripped my fullness and then her hand was gone. Entranced, I watched her hand crawl like a spider to the top of her own blouse and the same movements repeated themselves on her cloth, iridescent lace and brilliant colours, as each pearl button popped loose.
She turned ever so slightly away from me so that both of her breasts were exposed within their half cup brassiere. Rouge nipples, half hidden by the lace of her lingerie, pushed erect, tips long as the end of her finger.
I was astonished to see that the markings on her skin continued into the gentle cleaved valley between her breasts, long swirling patterns almost liquid on her flesh, patterned over the swell of each pushing warmth of breast. Her breasts were like an open wine glass, perfectly sculpted but skin patterned as if with fire and water.
Her smooth belly was also laced with colour and movement, her tight muscles almost fluttering with each breath as she sighed beneath my lips.
Now my tongue traced a pattern on her delicate wrist, and then a long slow lick up the smooth skin of her arm to the crux of her elbow, smooth and cupped.
She slowly and rhythmically began to bend her arm and each time it bent a small fold of skin presented itself to my tongue and to my fingers. I caressed it gently, as one would the lips between a woman's thighs, as if it were a small delicate cunt, a slip of erotic flesh far away from the usual place.
My mouth and tongue slowly moved higher, up towards the pit of her arm, my fingers trailing over the soft smooth flesh of her forearm and then her upper arm. Both my hands were now tracing the ends of my fingers over her arms, smooth yet strangely textured.
Her skin was soft, like down, but somehow not like flesh. However, I no longer cared about the strangeness of her flesh as she was starting to respond to the firm touch of my fingers, her body undulating in my lap, her tight ass pushing hard against my cock still trapped in my jeans, her sweet full breasts pushing against my chest.
